


Know There's An End In Sight

by GoldenDaydreams



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Consent Issues, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mage!Priscilla, Murder, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats, background Lambert/Aiden - Freeform, dark themes, obligatory bath scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Witchers and Mages fell to the numbers and manipulation of men. Now in servitude, Mages are controlled, mindlessly following the orders of their masters, and Witchers are gladiatorial fighters to be pitted against one another for money and entertainment, traded and collected.Geralt ends up a pawn in a very dangerous game between Lords. Winning might grant him freedom, losing ensures a fate worse than death.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Priscilla
Comments: 110
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try to update tags as I go, but I'm also really bad tags so-- I'm doing my best, okay?  
> 

Bruised and bloodied, the Witcher stood naked, vulnerable and exposed. The collar around his neck kept him still; the Mage in the room a silent threat, the mark on her exposed collarbone had her every bit as trapped as Geralt. Like the Witchers, the Mages fell to the numbers and manipulation of men. He’d been among the last classes of Witchers made, had known little of the path before he fell into the servitude, and the violent games of man. 

In the darkness of the dungeon Master Marik glared at him. Of course he was displeased. Geralt had fought poorly for weeks. In truth, Geralt just wanted those who were pitted against him to win, deep down he hoped one of them would land a lucky blow. Death, after all, was the only escape. 

Another man stalked up to Geralt, and looked him over. Geralt did not move. It wasn’t the first time he’d been sold. Lashing out would have the Mage’s power channeled through the collar, it wasn’t worth the pain that would bring him to his knees. Best to just let it happen. 

“I’ve seen him in the ring,” The Guest said. “Abysmal fighter.”

“Yet you’re the one who wants to buy him,” Master Marik replied. 

“The summer is young but I’ve had two of my workers collapse to heat exhaustion already. Witchers can work those long hours in the sun and recover.” The Guest didn’t look particularly impressed at the end of his inspection. “You’re going to have to dock a few crowns off your price. He looks as though he can barely stand.” 

“He’ll rebound,” Master Marik said. 

“Which school was he from?” 

“Wolf.” 

“Interesting.” 

“Have one of those yet?”

Geralt’s stomach churned at the thought of his brothers being collected and traded like Gwent cards. He couldn’t help the growl that worked it’s way from his chest, up his throat, and he bared his teeth. The current shocked him, vision whited out, his fingertips went numb, knees hit the unforgiving stone. The pain faded after a few seconds, a lingering ache in his nerves to remind him of his place. 

“I’ll pay half, looks like I’ll have to waste time training him too.”

Master Marik frowned, but nodded. “I know when to cut my losses.” 

The two men shook hands, and a woman stepped out of the shadows. Blonde hair fell in long curtains, her dress was formal, lovelier than what Master Marik dressed his Mage in. Right below her collarbone was her brand, giving control of her mind, body, and chaos to the wills of her master. 

There was always a moment, a split second during the transfer between one Mage and another, and Geralt vibrated with anticipation of it. A moment when all bonds on him were off, where he could see, smell, hear, taste, and feel everything with his heightened senses, where he could feel his little bit of chaos, not long enough to form a sign, but enough to remember he had power. 

What he got in that moment was the full understanding of the extent of abuse his body had taken, accompanied by the scent of rotting peaches. That was it, that was his moment of power, and he remembered just why he’d fallen completely hopeless for any escape. He had a new master now, the pattern was to begin once more. 

°°°

They didn’t stop at an inn on the way to wherever his new master hailed from, but rather a cottage that must have been rented out to nobility that went through. There were four people who travelled with his new master, and in his mind he dubbed them with titles: The Mage, The Knight, The Squire, and The Rogue. 

The Rogue helped The Mage down from the horse. The Squire immediately started tending to the horses. The Knight kept himself between Geralt, and The Master. With the exception of The Squire, everyone else was herded into the house.

The Rogue immediately went to the doorway of one of the rooms, and nodded. “The bath still looks hot.” 

“Good,” The Master said. Geralt took a deep breath to avoid rolling his eyes. Of course the young Lord would want a hot bath after a day of riding. “See to it.” 

“Of course, My Lord.” The Rogue grabbed Geralt’s shoulder, and physically guided Geralt into the other room. It was clean, large, three beds and a bath still steaming. On the side of the tub there was a fresh cloth and bar of soap. “Well, get in.” 

“Me?”

“Nah, talkin’ to myself, yes you,” The Rogue said, sounding irritated. “You reek and you’re covered in blood. Get cleaned up.” 

Of course he should be cleaned up for the comfort of his new master. The Rogue mostly stared out the window, but glanced over every now and then. Geralt stayed on task, not knowing how long he would be afforded the luxury of the hot water that was soothing his aching muscles. 

He worked up a lather on the cloth, he inhaled the scent of mint, and he almost wanted to bury his nose in it. What a luxury to smell something other than metallic blood, fear sweat, piss, or just as terribly the flowery scents the nobility loved spritzing all over themselves. The mint smelled clean, refreshing, nice. He had half the mind to steal it, but without so much as a stitch to his name, he’d never get away with it. 

He scrubbed long after the blood and filth was washed from his body, scrubbed to cling longer to the scent, scrubbed like he could wash away the memories of the beatings he’d endured, and the fights he’d won. 

“Keep it up, and you’re not going to have any skin left.” The Rogue held up a towel. 

His time was up. He set the bar of soap and cloth to the side, then stood. The Rogue gave him as much privacy as possible, which didn’t make a lot of sense considering Geralt had walked all the way here barefoot and naked. It was a little late to preserve any sense of dignity. 

He dried and the Rogue pointed to a pile of clothes folded neatly on the end of one of the bed. “Get dressed.” 

Geralt followed the order. The clothes were plain, but well made. They were a little loose on him, might have fit him when he’d been in peak condition, but Marik hadn’t wanted to waste food on keeping a Witcher in fighting shape when he continuously lost in battle. 

The Rogue tipped his head back toward the main room, and Geralt followed the silent order. There were bowls spread out on the table of what looked like a hearty stew, and Geralt’s stomach rumbled. When was the last time he had something more than porridge and stale bread?

The Master made eye contact, and pointed to the bowl across from him. “Sit. Eat.” 

Geralt knew he was in no position to argue, and he’d been treated far worse. They wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to poison his stew. He sat, flanked by the Rogue and the Squire. To the Master’s right, The Mage, to his left, the Knight. 

“Eat,” The Master demanded once more. 

“Thank you.”

The Master’s jaw clenched, and he glared down at his food. He was not meant to speak, only obey, at least the Master’s anger hadn’t resulted in having his food taken away. He ate slow, only because he feared that such a hearty meal might not sit well after so little for so long. The Squire tore off a chunk of bread, and put it beside Geralt’s hand. It was so fresh that he felt the warmth in the middle. 

He wasn’t sure why he was being given such a meal, especially sharing a table with The Master. He made sure to keep pace with the Squire, the slowest eater other than The Mage, and Geralt was sure they didn’t care for her other than her power under The Master’s heel. 

When his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, and every crumb of bread was gone, he sat with his hands in his lap. The others were quiet too. The Squire starting to clean up without being asked, but he left The Mage who still slowly ate, dazed and blank.

Geralt hated his collar, but fuck, if there was something he still feared, it was being put in a state like the Mages were. Present enough to listen to commands, but not even given the freedom of thought. She was pretty, young, likely only a child when some Lord had gone through with the rite, branding her, controlling her. A different Lord certainly, for The Master was young too, mid-twenties, no more than thirty surely. Like Witchers, Mages too passed from one Master to another.

The Master tapped his fingers on the table in a the beat of a song Geralt once knew, but could no longer recall. “Are you injured, Witcher?”

“No, Master.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“I am bruised, but otherwise fine.”

The beat tapped out on the table again. “To bed then.” The Master looked to The Rogue who nodded. 

Geralt was led to the room, expecting to be told to sleep on the floor, but instead, he was given the same bed that had the clothes had been upon. The Squire came in a few minutes later. Geralt wondered if he could incapacitate both before the Mage knew. Doubtful. And where would he go? He didn’t even know where he was now. 

He laid down on the soft bed with a full stomach, it was the best sleep he could remember. 

°°°

They made him walk again while the rest of them had horses. It was fine. He’d even been given a pair of boots, they were well worn, and surprisingly fit. Other than the metal collar sitting heavily around his throat, he could pretend he was out on a stroll, free to wander the path. Tucked into the sleeve of his shirt was the mint soap. It was impulsive, the tiniest thrill of power, of autonomy, but now he was stuck keeping it hidden. 

He remembered some of the herbs that grew along the side of the road. It irritated him that there were others that he knew the shape of, could think of the uses for, but the name escaped him. 

Ahead, on the road, he saw figures coming their way. Geralt scratched the skin above the collar. He would be able to see better if he could only get the damned collar off. The formation of the horses changed slightly, The Knight taking the lead, The Master off further to the right, closer to the ditch, The Mage on the other side, a very powerful shield to have. The Squire took up the space behind them, and The Rogue rode closer to Geralt. 

A trader with two horses, and a carriage of goods, passed without much but a respectful nod from the trader to The Knight, who nodded back. 

They continued their journey into the night. In the distance, he saw torch lights. Geralt thought of his potions, what he could take to be able to see in this darkness. He regretted it, thinking of all the things he’d lost would not bring them back. 

Everything ached by the time they entered the city, all his unhealed bruises from the last fight, his feet, his back, everything. He felt more than his age. He followed along the pathways, not bothering to memorize his way out, he accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be leaving on his own anyway. 

The mansion sat nestled in the orchard of the gated estate, and it took them a good ten minutes just to walk down the path from the gate to the estate house. Fruit hung heavy on the branches, he wanted to take one, hide it somehow for later, in case he wasn’t fed again, despite the fact they’d made sure to give him rations during every break thus far. 

He didn’t think he could reach out and grab one of the peaches without The Rogue catching him. It would be awkward to hide in his clothes too. He kept looking, but didn’t touch.

The estate appeared in immaculate shape from the outside. He was surprised to be guided in the front door. Usually there would be another entrance, stairs leading down into the dark, but he was led down into a wing of the estate, guided into a room with a window with no bars. The bed wasn’t lavish, but it had clean sheets and one pillow. Basic, but not unkind. 

“Don’t think about escaping through that window. Priscilla will know if you leave, and you know how painful that will be for you,” The Master said. 

The Mage, Priscilla , stood beside The Master, utterly docile. Yet, dangerous. 

“I understand,” Geralt said. 

The Master snapped his fingers, and The Knight passed him something, a flash of silver. The Master let the item dangle from one of his fingers. Geralt’s heart clenched, his medallion. He knew it got passed along, master to master, they liked knowing which school a Witcher once belonged to, for collecting purposes. He hadn’t seen it in years, not even in passing. 

“That’s mine,” he whispered. 

“No.” The Master reached into the pocket of his black jacket, gilded with blue and gold stitching. From it, he dangled another medallion. “This is yours.” 

Another wolf. The Master had another wolf. Who? His heart raced, and he wanted to cry out, wanted to hear something in return. 

“Do as I say for one week, give me everything I ask for one week, and I will let you see him.” 

Geralt wished he wasn’t so weak, but he could barely remember their faces, the sounds of their voices had long since faded. “Please.” 

The Master took in a sharp breath, pocketed both medallions, and turned heel. The Mage stared blankly a moment longer before she trailed after her master. The Knight closed the door, and Geralt heard the heavy lock slide into place. 

If a wolf howled at the moon, would another wolf reply?


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt expected to be assigned any number of derogatory tasks. He’d given up the last of his dignity and hope years ago. The Squire unlocked the door in the morning, beckoning him to follow to the table for breakfast. The Mage sat there, already eating a bowl of porridge with a healthy topping of fresh peaches that glistened with honey. His bowl was bigger, topped the same, and on the plate next to it was a chunk of warm bread and a sliced apple. The Squire passed a tankard of water to him. 

He ate fast, ever fearful his meal would be taken away. The sweetness remained an unexpected treat, but he still didn’t take time to savour it.

“You are to come with me,” The Mage said only after he finished. He followed her, flipping her identity in his mind, Priscilla/The Mage, her name made her seem more a human, but she wasn’t herself anymore, identity stripped away until she was a shell completing a task. She wasn’t the woman the name stated anymore. Much like he wasn’t Geralt, not truly, not anymore. 

She took him outside, and he couldn’t believe he’d actually been purchased to just pick fruit. She didn’t take him into the orchard though, and he spotted a training dummy, a line of swords, surely dull. 

“You are to train.” She clasped her hands behind her back, she stared somewhere over his right shoulder. “Should you require anything, I will tell the Master.” 

He looked around, no Squire, Rogue, or Knight. No one. Just him and The Mage. “Where are we?” 

The Mage blinked. “We are home.” 

He sighed. 

“You are to train,” she repeated. 

He thought of the wolf medallion, of The Master’s words, the promise he really didn’t have to keep, but it was a seed of hope that had been planted in Geralt’s heart. Besides, what alternative did he have? 

It felt good to get his hands on a sword again, for a moment he could pretend he was back at Kaer Morhen, that he was training with his brothers-in-arms. He could believe they were together. He hit the dummy with precision strikes, then harder ones, working out some of his anger at his entire situation, anger that had been dulled through the years but came back with a righteous fire. 

Merik never put him into the ring with blades, only fighting with his own hands, his body, the truest skill Merik had said, was to destroy that which was against you, to feel the bones crack under ones own hands. Geralt hated it. He’d been trained to fight monsters, and instead he was put up against other Witchers. 

Clearly, that was what this Master wanted of him too. To throw him to the ring, to force him to fight against others of his kind. There were rarely death matches any more, not like they could make new Witchers, but the fights were always brutal and stole a little more of Geralt’s soul every time. 

A wind blew through the courtyard, cooling the sweat on his back. He had to pause, his shoulders already aching. He’d become so out of shape in captivity. The Knight came out, spoke briefly to The Mage. She nodded, and not long after told Geralt to stop. He followed her again, imagined snapping her neck, threw the thought away. 

The house had a proper bathhouse. The steam hit him the moment he stepped inside the room. She sat on a little stool just inside the door, and pointed toward the frosted and coloured glass that acted as a privacy screen. Behind it, he found the large bath which could easily fit ten people. On a bench there were three towels neatly rolled and stacked in a triangle. A fresh set of clothes laid out beside them. 

He sunk into the water, the heat relaxing his muscles. He scrubbed himself clean with a soap that smelled faintly of mint—not quite like the bar of soap he had hidden under the mattress, but similar. He dunked himself under to rid his hair of the suds. As much as he would like to linger in the warm water, he stood, dried, dressed, and rejoined The Mage. 

She led him through the house, back to the table where he’d eaten breakfast to find a hearty stew, more bread, and water. He ate quickly, but The Mage did not rush. He had to wait until she finished before she guided him back to his room. “You should rest.” 

Dinner he didn’t eat at the table, but it was delivered by The Squire, a cut of venison, with potatoes, a peach placed to the side—a night snack, he supposed—and a large pitcher of water. They were keeping him well fed and hydrated. Trying to get him back into fighting shape. He didn’t want to go back to the ring. The Medallion haunted him. 

He ate. 

He slept. 

He woke. 

This time, after breakfast, The Mage really did take him to the orchard. Gave him a large basket, instructed him in that far-away voice of hers how to tell which of the peaches were ready. 

The Squire brought him lunch, which he ate in the field. He continued to work, occasionally seeing some of the other labourers, too far away to speak to, but sometimes he would hear a song on the wind. 

He ate dinner at the table this time, late in the evening, The Mage sat across from him, and The Rogue came in even later with his plate. They ate without discussion, The Rogue occasionally looking Geralt over before he would stab at his food. 

After dinner, The Mage returned Geralt to his room for the night. 

The third day had him training. 

The fourth had him in the orchard. 

He didn’t see The Master until the fifth day when he was guided there by The Mage after his bath. She led him to the office, and stood in the shadows by the door. 

The Master sat behind a oak desk, intricately carved, very expensive. Exhaustion aged him, dark circles under his bright blue eyes. His hair had been trimmed since Geralt had last seen him. The Master pointed to the chair across from him. “Stop looming, sit.” 

Geralt was used to his masters telling him to kneel, even some going as far as to make him then touch his forehead to the ground. Some would kick, or spit, or—he sat down in the chair. 

“I saw you years ago,” The Master said. “You fought unlike anyone I’d ever seen in the ring.” 

Guilt and shame went to war inside of him. Survival instinct was a bitch, especially with his extra mutations. Not wanting to hurt a fellow Witcher was nothing in the face of another Witcher attacking him. Self-preservation was difficult to ignore.

“And I saw you weeks ago, fighting spirit lost.” 

Geralt didn’t understand. Why purchase him for fighting if he knew that spirit was lost? He said nothing, it wasn’t his place to speak. 

The Master drummed his fingertips on the desk, lips pursed. The stare he pinned on Geralt had a overwhelming intensity, it was as if he could see into his soul. “I wish this hadn’t come up so soon, but there is a fight, and I am putting you into it. You’re going to win it.” 

He wouldn’t. 

“Or, you won’t be seeing that other wolf.”

Geralt gripped the arm rests of the chair, his fingers clenching until it brought him pain. He knew he’d been getting away too easy on that ‘everything I want for one week’ promise. His mind could come up with hundreds of other things The Master might do, or say, or want.

“Have you healed from your time with Marik yet?” The Master asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Will you win the fight, Wolf?” 

“Yes.” 

“Elias will train you from now on.” The Master looked to The Mage. “Dismissed.” 

The Mage escorted Geralt through the rest of his day, deposited him back in his room and locked the door. 

In a restless moment in the middle of the night, he pulled free the little bar of mint soap, rubbing his thumb over the waxy texture, the scent calming him a little even as the anxiety built. 

During the days that followed, The Rogue/Elias trained him. He no longer worked in the orchard on alternating days, it was a shame, he’d almost enjoyed it. 

The Rogue had a wild look about him, dark hair that fell to his shoulders, piercing green eyes, long limbs, trim build, not just quick, but thoughtful in both attack and defense. Geralt often found himself on the defensive, and still got the sense the man would be even more dangerous with daggers. 

“Do you know who I will be fighting?” Geralt risked asking, figured it in the realm of acceptable while they took a brief water break. 

“No,” The Rogue replied. “I know it’s one of Lord Auden’s. He’s known for his cruelty, also suspected in giving his Witchers potions to make them more vicious in the ring, but it’s nothing anyone can prove.” The Rogue looked him over. “You’re going to have your work cut out for you. Where they are vicious, you’ll need to be smart.” 

“Weapons?”

“No. It’ll be hand to hand, which is going to be how we spend the last half of our day.” 

°°°

The fight was held on the end of Geralt’s first week under his new Master, the last day of their agreement. So far The Master had not asked anything of him that was impossible. If he won the fight, he would see one of his brother-in-arms once again. He rode on horseback half the day with the rest of them, since they wanted him rested for the fight. 

It made him miss Roach. 

Lord Auden’s estate was larger, more imposing than The Master’s. There were people in finery all around. Some stopped to whisper as they rode to the stables. The Rogue leaned down to say something to The Squire who nodded, but remained tense. 

The battlegrounds would be outside, the ring had obviously been used before, sand stained red. There were guards posted around, but also stations that were for the mages who would end a fight should it go to far, or should either man get too close to the nobility. 

The Knight escorted Geralt away to a room to prepare, nothing more than a scrap of fabric belted to his waist, but the knight did wrap his knuckles, and tie back his hair. They didn’t dally, dinner was always served first, and somehow managed to be as bad as the fights most of the time. 

Like he had hundreds of times before, he stood against the wall, The Mage to his right. They were not people. They would not sit at the table like The Master did in front of them. This night, they would not be fed. Good thing too, Geralt didn’t think he would be able to keep anything down. 

Those of nobility ate, talked, and walked around the room inspecting the fighters. It wasn’t uncommon for wandering hands. Geralt picked a spot on the painting across the room, and let the noise all fall away, putting himself into a bit of a meditative trance. 

“Oh, surely he fucks her.” Geralt tensed. The Mage did nothing, she stared blankly as the man brushed his thumb against her lips, pushed until her lips gave way, and he pressed down on her tongue. “Why else would he put her in such a fine dress, if not?” His hand caressed down her throat, leaving a trail of her saliva. Geralt was to stay still, keep quiet, be nothing but a decorative piece of flesh. So was she. His hands clenched into fists as the man’s hand slipped under the decorative lace at the collar of her dress, slipping lower over the swell of her breast. 

“You would be wise to keep your hands off what is mine,” The Master appeared, eyes narrowed, wine cup in hand. 

The man jumped, pulling his hand free of her dress. “Just a Mage.”

“My Mage. Not yours,” The Master snarled. “Begone.” 

The Master glared at the man’s back, and turned to The Rogue. “Find out who that man is.” 

“Yes, My Lord.” 

The Master then turned his attention to The Mage, gently fixing her dress from where it had folded inward. “Are you okay?” he asked in a breath of a whisper. 

“I am well, Master.” 

The Master frowned, looking back to the crowd he’d once been mingling in. “The fight is soon, Wolf. Do not disappoint me.” 

Geralt risked a glance at The Mage, physically there, mentally gone. 

He envied her. 

°°°

The hot sand burned his feet, while the shouting of the nobles grated on his nerves. They made their bets as four Witchers prowled the ring. It had already been announced, four of the schools represented; a bear, a viper, a griffin, and a wolf. 

Geralt risked looking away, the fight bell hadn’t gone off yet. It took a moment, but he found his Master in the stands. The Rogue had his ear, but his eyes were on Geralt. He patted The Rogue on the shoulder, and leaned forward, hands on the railing, his attention unwavering. 

Not wanting to fight didn’t stop it from happening. 

Everything happened so fast, The Bear came for him immediately, perhaps he’d heard of Geralt’s long standing losing streak. As they fought, Geralt found himself in a corner, and wished it was a match where the Mages loosened their grip, when signs were allowed, a good shove from Aard would give him some breathing room. 

Instead, The Bear got in a good shot to his nose and the pain blinded him a moment. Adrenaline spiked, and Geralt remembered the two wolf medallions hanging from his Master’s fingers. He wasn’t doing this for his master, hell he wasn’t even really doing this for himself, he was doing this for his brother. 

He countered a strike, felt something in the Bear’s arm snap, and the man screamed. Distracted was he by the pain, that Geralt grabbed the back of the Bear’s head and pulled him down as he brought his knee up and felt the nose break under the force. He dropped the Bear in an unconscious heap on the sand. 

The Viper already had the better of the Griffin, having the man in a choke-hold until the Griffin’s master shouted ‘Yield!’ 

The Viper smiled, clearly enjoying the fight. Geralt remembered the times in the earlier years, when the fights made him feel alive again, because while he wasn’t fighting monsters, at least he was still fighting, and that was the only thing he’d ever known. The Viper might enjoy the fight, but Geralt had something worth fighting for. 

The bruises were worth it. 

The broken bones were worth it. 

He would not yield. 

He would not care about the damage he caused. 

They fought viciously until Geralt finally got the Viper into a position he couldn’t squirm his way out of, he applied more pressure, waiting, waiting for the Viper’s master to yield. More pressure and he felt the Viper’s shoulder pop out of place, despite the man’s sharp scream before the low moan of pain, the Master did not yield. 

Considering how little fight was left in the Viper, Geralt got him into a choke-hold. It wasn’t until the man went limp in Geralt’s arms that he was released, and dropped to the sand. 

There were cheers, and curses, but Geralt didn’t give a shit. He’d won. He was escorted off, others would take his place for subsequent fights, but he’d won his. A part of him wondered if his Master would simply ignore the promise, feared it. 

The Knight saw to it that he was bathed, patched up the best he could, and placed in a room with The Mage. Twin cots side by side. He could hear the shouting of other matches going on outside as he laid on the bed, trying to ignore the aches and pains from the fight, his hand resting on his stomach below the wrap around his broken ribs. 

“Does our Master really have another Wolf?” 

The Mage turned to him, stared for a long minute. “Yes.” 

“Do you know his name?”

“It is not my place.” 

Geralt shut his eyes, and tried to tell himself the burning was just from the sand. 


	3. Chapter 3

During the ride back to The Master’s estate, Geralt distracted himself from his pains by paying more attention to his companions. The Rogue and The Squire rode close together, Geralt looked back and caught them in a brief moment of holding hands. The Squire continued to look shaken, and Geralt wondered what he’d missed. The Mage looked as blank as ever, following along to orders mindlessly. The Knight kept glancing back at Geralt, but also kept a sharp eye on The Master, who seemed to be thinking all too much, and not paying enough attention to the road. 

Upon their arrival back at the orchard, a dwarf stood in wait on the stairs to the grand front doors. 

“Oh fuck,” The Master groaned, it was the first time Geralt had truly seen the man lose his calm, cool and collected persona. 

“That’s rude, I hold down the fort, and you greet me with an ‘oh fuck?’” 

“Greetings, Zoltan,” The Master gracefully dismounted his horse. “To what do I owe the immense pleasure of seeing you out front of the estate at this time of day? Hm?” 

“Need to speak with you,” Zoltan said. He looked up at the rest of them before his eyes went back to The Master. “Privately.”

“See, I knew the ‘oh fuck’ was warranted.” The Master turned to The Squire. “Wit, take care of the horses.” 

“At once, My Lord.” 

“What do you will of me, Master?” The Mage asked. 

Zoltan frowned, and turned away from her. 

“Take the Wolf to his room, then go to yours, get some rest, it’s been a long day,” The Master said. “I’ll send someone to fetch you for dinner.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

Geralt felt rooted to the spot. “You said—”

“I’ll keep my promise,” The Master assured. “Be patient, I’m busy.” 

Geralt held onto the promise, the last hope, followed The Mage to his room, and waited. Watched the sun slip behind the horizon, and had all but given up hope when he heard the lock turn. The Master stood there looking as though he’d aged in the hours they’d been parted. 

“You did well today.”

“Thank you, Master.” His heart beat faster in his chest. Would he be given his reward?

“I told Marik I wanted you for the fields. It’s untrue. I need a fighter. You were heavily discounted, but previously impressive. I need you to be that fighter again.” He crossed his arms, and tapped his fingers along his arm. “If you do well, you will be rewarded.” 

If you do poorly, you’ll be sorry—he heard the unspoken threat of which he was not unfamiliar. 

The Master gave a sharp nod, then made a motion to follow, and Geralt swiftly got to his feet. 

The Mage stood in the shadows, her pale hair catching the light of the hallway torches. A silent threat for his obedience. It wasn’t needed. Where was the other Wolf? Were they close? He wished his senses weren’t so muted so that he might know. 

The sprawling estate kept them apart, a totally different wing, but The Master finally stopped at the door, and pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his coat. “You have one hour,” he said as he unlocked the door. 

He could hear someone moving inside. Moving past The Master and The Mage, he pushed door open. In the dim candlelight he stared at the figure in the shadows. The door shut and locked behind him, but he didn’t care, his heart raced for the first time in so long in excitement rather than fear. 

“Geralt? Is that you?” The man shifted from the shadows, walked further into the light, to the middle of the room.

Lightheaded, Geralt took a step forward and almost collapsed. “Lambert.” He reached out, and pulled the man into a tight hug. A hand fisted in the back of his shirt as Lambert held him just as close. 

When they parted Geralt wiped his face of tears, unembarrassed since Lambert had to do the same thing. He noticed some differences as he stared at his fellow wolf, new scars on Lambert’s face, the beard that hadn’t been there when they’d parted even though his hair was neatly trimmed, but most alarmingly the very loose arm of the shirt he wore. 

“Ah,” Lambert said, lifting that arm, and the fabric dangled from around where his elbow would be, empty. “Long story.” 

“We have an hour.” 

“Used to be owned by Lady Heleve. She wasn’t the worst,” Lambert said with a half shrug. “Threw me into a weaponed fight. I was winning, and then… my arm was fucking gone. She yielded, her Mage did what he could, probably saved me from bleeding out. It’s how I ended up here. I was useless as a fighter at that point, but Master Jaskier figured I could still work the orchard, and Lady Heleve knew she wouldn’t get a better offer from anyone else.” 

_Jaskier._ Geralt had been with the man for over a week and only heard ‘Master,’ and ‘Sir,’ and ‘My Lord.’ 

“How long have you been here?” Lambert asked. 

“A week.” 

“Makes sense why they had my schedule all over the place these past few days then.” 

“You? How long have you been with The Master?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know, over a year, less than two?” 

“Have you seen any others from our school?” 

Lambert shook his head. “I did hear something though, a long time ago, when I was still with Lady Heleve, I heard about a Lord Gareth Pankratz. Apparently the bastard collects wolves. Probably why, that and we had fewer numbers when all this bullshit happened. Remember when we thought we’d die at the hands of some monster on a hunt? Weren’t those the good ol’ days?”

The levity fell flat, and Geralt rubbed his hands together. “What else do you know of this place, these people?” 

“The Mage’s name is Priscilla. Jaskier seems to have a soft spot for her.” Lambert scratched at his beard, and Geralt winced, it was risky to call The Master as such even in private, it was easy to forget later, easy to slip-up, and be punished for disrespect. “She is as all mages are now, but Jaskier… I don’t know, almost looks sad every time I’ve seen him order her. Took me a while to notice it, but once I did, I couldn’t unsee it. Uh, Zoltan’s been around, dwarf, maybe you haven’t met him—”

“I did, earlier today, briefly.” 

“He’s kind of Jaskier’s right hand—”

“I thought that was The Knight.” 

“The Knight?” 

“Tall, brown hair, mustache—”

“Ah, Vincent, nah, he’s kind of like Jaskier’s bodyguard, but it’s Zoltan who ends up in Jaskier’s office. Mixed business, perhaps. Not sure, honestly. Elias is—”

“I know, I trained with him,” Geralt said, well aware of the fact that they were on a time limit. “He’s The Rogue, Wit is The Squire. Those two seem to have something going on.” 

“Really? That one is news to me. Then again, most of my time is spent either with Priscilla, or some of the field workers. None of the workers come into the house, but they’re treated pretty fairly. Wit sometimes comes out with water for everyone.” 

Geralt glanced at the door. 

“As far as master’s go, Jaskier is downright decent,” Lambert said. “Even when I got snippy, or made a run for it once or twice, Priscilla just did her thing, and they left me in my room, and let boredom be my punishment, still fed me and everything.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would he be nice?” Geralt asked. “What does he get out of it?”

“I don’t know if he ‘gets something out of it,’ I just don’t think he has it in himself to be cruel.” Lambert toyed with the loose arm of his tunic. “Then again, I heard he took over this estate from some other Lord. The field workers don’t talk about it outright, and I’ve never been able to get the full story, but there was definitely someone else in charge here before, someone notably cruel. The workers don’t speak one bad word about Jaskier, and it’s not out of fear, but… respect, I guess.” 

“Where are we?”

“Kerack for sure. I think we’re in the northern part, close to where Cidaris and Temeria meet. I mean, it’s not like I’m going out for strolls, but I’m pretty sure.” 

There was a time when they would have been able to talk casually, but their lives for so long had been nothing but survival, and servitude. “Do you think we could run?” Geralt asked, words so quiet he didn’t know if Lambert would even hear them.

Oh, but he did. Two of Lambert’s fingers went under Geralt’s collar, and tugged him closer. “Don’t. There are worse places to be than here.” 

“You said so yourself, you tried to run.”

“Before. I was used to cruelty, I expected it, running or dying sounded better than adjusting to some young Lord’s bullshit. After Lady Helene, didn’t figure I’d be going anywhere better than that—and she was horrible, better than others, but…when I really think about it, she was fucking awful. And I thought it wouldn’t get better, and I figured if I ran, they’d off me. Cut their losses.” 

“Lamb—”

“But I just woke up in my room. Food on the table, along with a book to read. There are worse things, Geralt. And now,” he shrugged. “At least we’re together.” 

It was something. More than Geralt had in over a decade. 

Lambert’s head rested on his shoulder, and Geralt let his own head rest upon Lambert’s. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was nice. They stayed like that, sitting in the quiet until they heard the lock, a second before the door opened. 

The Master walked in, looked at the two of them sitting side by side on the foot of the bed. “Don’t look so worried, wolves,” The Master said. “You’ll be working the orchard together tomorrow. You,” he said pointing to Geralt. “Come now, time for bed.” 

Geralt dragged his feet leaving the room, but The Master hadn’t broken a promise yet, Lambert said he was far kinder than any other master. 

And when it came time for breakfast, as promised, Lambert was there. 

°°°

His life fell into the same pattern as before, but this time when he worked the orchards, he was permitted to work with Lambert. On the days that he trained, it altered between The Knight, and The Rogue. The Master was absent more frequently, and Geralt got used to seeing Zoltan around. 

Autumn started to roll in, and days out in the trees were longer, picking the fruit before winter. An influx of women hired for the kitchen made all types of things from the fruits before they could go bad. He wondered what his days would look like during the winter. 

The Squire brought Geralt and Lambert in from the fields, and passed them off to The Mage at the estate doors. “Come with me, please,” she said, and turned away as if it never occurred to her they might not listen. 

Lambert fell into step, and Geralt a second later. She led them to The Master’s office. It hadn’t changed any since the last time Geralt had been there. This time though, there was a half empty wine bottle on the desk.

As before, the Master gestured to the chairs, and Lambert and Geralt both sat down. “Sit. Priscilla, please, stop lurking in the dark.” 

“Where would you like me, Master?” 

Geralt saw The Master flinch. Perhaps Lambert was right. He was soft to The Mage. 

“The sofa,” The Master said, pointing to the fancy couch tucked between bookshelves. 

The Mage sat down, folded her hands on her lap, stared blankly at the wall. 

The Master turned his attention to Geralt. “I will be hosting the next arena.” A statement he didn’t sound pleased about, while his formal masters had taken a delight in the house cut. “You will be fighting in it.” His gaze slipped to Lambert for only a second. “You will not lose.” 

The threat was casual, but Geralt heard it loud, and clear. 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Full Witcher abilities will be used. No weapons. No Igni.” 

Geralt’s fingers moved on his lap, tracing Igni anyway. “Understood.” 

The Master drank the rest of his wine. “Lambert will be training with you. Priscilla will supervise and will drop you both without hesitation should either of you think about doing anything stupid with your newfound freedoms.” He stood and grabbed the whole wine bottle. “Priscilla, escort them to dinner.”

Geralt glanced back once at the door to see The Master staring out the window behind his desk, wine bottle dangling from fingertips. 

°°°

Four days after the office, The Master and The Mage took Geralt and Lambert down to the basement arena. It had smaller spectator stands than most. Once they were out in the middle, Geralt felt it—the power, his chaos, his senses returning. Lambert’s eyes widened, pupils adjusting, looking around quickly. 

Geralt breathed in the scents. Blood and sweat. Peaches. Faded notes of perfumes. Smoke. Peaches. Lavender. Mint. 

“No Igni,” The Master said. “Try not to hurt each other.”

They didn’t. They wouldn’t. Geralt had fought in such matches before, but never given time to train before hand, never had someone he cared about as a training partner. He wouldn’t hurt Lambert. He did push him a bit with a gentle shove of Aard though, just because he could. Lambert sent one back. It brought back the brotherhood of Kaer Morhen. 

“Don’t you remember?” he heard, the words were faint over the space between him and the speaker, but he focussed on the sound. “We were like that once.” 

“We fought?” The Mage asked, her soft voice confused. 

“No. We were like siblings,” The Master said, great sorrow on his tongue. “Don’t you remember Pris? 

“If you say so, Master.” 

Rotting peaches. 

“We were,” The Master whispered. 

Lambert gave him a one handed shove, it knocked him back a step, and broke his concentration. 

°°°

Geralt trained later than usual in preparation for the fight, only eight days away. He didn’t get to fight with Lambert, but instead with The Rogue who was armed. The point was to not get hit by sword or shield, but to also have control enough to not hurt the human. 

Quen kept the sword from causing damage, the magical shield breaking upon impact, and pushing outward. Aard ensured that Geralt never got backed into a corner. Yrden slowed The Rogue when he pushed in too far, and gave Geralt a chance to get into a better position. He thought about Axii, but while it hadn’t been excluded specifically like Igni, he doubted it would be appreciated—it also wouldn’t hold long against another Witcher, and thus didn’t think it was worth the training time. 

“You two are still at it,” The Master said as he descended the stairs to the pit. “I figured you two would have called it quits hours ago.” 

The Rogue shrugged. “Hard to tell the passage of time down here. Apologies, My Lord.” 

“How does he look?” The Master asked The Rogue, even if his eyes were on Geralt. 

“Worlds better than his last fight, and he won that,” The Rogue planted his hands on his hips. “He’s got good control on his signs, I’d say he stands a decent chance.” 

“Good. Wit needs assistance moving some boxes in the east wing, do you mind assisting him?” 

“I’m on it,” The Rogue said, passing by the Mage who still stood high on the stairs, looking down at The Master and Geralt. 

“You need a bath,” The Master said looking him over. Geralt felt the same, his sweat coated shirt clung to his chest and back. “Come now, you can’t sleep like this.” 

The Master led him through the halls, The Mage falling in line a step behind. There were more people walking around, moving things, decorating, ensuring rooms were cleared out for guests. Halfway to the baths he realized his senses hadn’t been dulled. An oversight surely. An order The Master had forgotten, and The Mage wouldn’t do anything not ordered. 

The Mage stumbled as they entered the bathing room, and The Master reached out to steady her. “Oh, Pris, you’re exhausted.” 

“I am sorry, Master.” 

The Master looked from The Mage to Geralt, he took a deep breath, and turned back to The Mage. “Go to bed, get some rest.” 

“Yes, Master,” she said walking away in her usual unhurried way. 

“I’m well aware you could kill me,” The Master said, as if he could read Geralt’s mind, “But you won’t.” 

“How can you be sure?” Geralt asked before he could think better of it. He could kill the Master, there were enough people in the estate that he might not even be noticed, he could break Lambert out. To get off the property they would have to kill The Mage, regrettable, but acceptable collateral damage. His powers weren’t even locked away, so it would be easier. They could go out with violence, or maybe he could use Axii on key people during the escape to avoid bloodshed. 

“You won’t see another wolf if you do.” 

Geralt narrowed his eyes. 

“In the bath, you reek.” The Master walked around the privacy glass, and picked up various vials, sniffing and discarding. “We have overlapping desires, you and I.” 

“How so?” Geralt stripped off his shirt. 

The Master sprinkled scented salts into the bathwater. Mint.

“There is a Lord who collects Wolf Witchers,” The Master sat on the bench, looked away as Geralt removed his pants. “He happens to be a man who also has something of mine. We both want to ruin him.” 

While he’d heard of such a man before from Lambert, hearing it directly from The Master put some weight behind the rumours. “And how do you intend on doing that?” 

“With a well thought out plan,” The Master said. “However, things have happened recently and I fear I’m running out of time. You must win the next match. It is not about the money, it’s about showcasing that I have something that _he_ doesn’t. I have a Wolf Witcher that is in fighting shape, and _he_ is going to want you.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Geralt asked as he slipped into the water. 

“Extra incentive, Wolf.” The Master said. “I can see how much you enjoy your brother wolf’s company. I don’t imagine the fact that other wolves are under the heel of a very dangerous, cruel man sits well with you.” 

The Master pressed his thumb into the knuckle of the other hand. With Geralt’s senses still high, he could focus on the faint lines on the knuckles, the fingers, skin on the back of his hands, old scars, semi-circular. A hammer. He counted at least four places where he could see most of the circle of the hammer’s head, imagined the fragile bones breaking, the healing that had to be done. He saw similar marks on The Master’s other hand. 

“I thought there would be more time, Melitele knows this has been a long game, but recent developments have put my ability to win on a time limit. You’re it for me, White Wolf, my one weapon in this fight. I wish I’d been able to acquire you earlier, been able to train you longer—” 

Rotting peaches. 

He’d caught scent of it before, but had never been able to properly place it. The Master looked pained, still rubbing his hands, his mind somewhere else. 

There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but knew it was not his place. Then again, he’d already risked so much in this conversation. “The Mage, is it her that you fight for?” 

The silence held for so long Geralt thought The Master wouldn’t answer, but he also hadn’t been punished for the question, so he remained quiet, washing the sweat off his body. 

“Priscilla is a fight I already lost,” The Master whispered. 

Geralt let that information sink in as he yanked his fingers through his hair, trying to get the knots out. 

The Master let out a bit of a whine. “Stop that, here, I’ll help.” And he maneuvered to kneel on the floor behind Geralt, like he hadn’t thought about the way in which he’d suddenly switched to serving Geralt instead. The Master’s hands never touched his skin, as Geralt had originally expected—and excuse to touch, to push things further, but The Master just very carefully worked out the knots with utmost patience while he hummed a song that sounded like a lullaby. Geralt’s eyes grew heavy at the soft treatment. 

“Your beard is getting scraggly. Would you like it trimmed or shaved? Or are you enjoying the wild, straight from the woods look?” 

Was The Master teasing him? The scents in the room sweetened. 

“Shaved,” Geralt ventured. 

“I can trim it up for now,” The Master said. “I don’t trust my unsteady hands not to cut you. I’ll get Wit to do a proper shave tomorrow, he’s quite good.”

Geralt finished with his bath, dried, and kept the towel around his waist. He sat down on the bench, and The Master draped another towel around his neck to catch the falling hairs. As with his hair before, The Master tipped Geralt’s head back a bit, he melted into the soft touch of The Master’s guiding hand. The shears trembled a bit then steadied and snipped. 

It felt good, too good, the touch along with the sweet scent of The Master, made his body react in a way he didn’t want. If The Master noticed, he was kind enough not to mention it. Fingers ran through the finished job, shaking loose little clumps of hair. 

“That must feel a little better,” The Master murmured, turning to set the shears down on the bench, and stretch his fingers out, massaging them with a grimace. It must have been hard on hands, then why offer at all?

The door to the room opened, and Geralt felt the cool air from the halls. “My Lord?” 

“Back here, Vincent.” 

The Knight rounded the privacy glass. “A courier arrived, has a package for you.” 

“This late in the evening?” The Master raised an eyebrow. “And it wasn’t just sent to my office?” 

“Said it was urgent. He wore the broach of one of Lord Gareth’s men.” The Knight frowned. “The crate reeks, sir.” 

The Master paled, and Geralt could see the tremble in his frame. The Master said as he stood, and adjusted one of his rings back into place. “Vincent, escort him back to his room when he’s finished.” 

“Yes, My Lord.” 

Geralt watched The Master leave, and wondered just what could have been sent. He dressed, and followed The Knight. In the hallway he could hear the gasp, the choked sob, the curse. He didn’t turn toward it, couldn’t let The Knight know his abilities were unleashed. 

The door shut, and locked once he stepped inside. 

An hour later, he smelled burning wood, and then burning flesh.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt expected to be taken to the arena once breakfast was done, but instead the Mage guided both him, and Lambert outside. The morning breeze brought the scent of peaches and smoke. 

“Zoltan said it’s too beautiful a day to be kept inside,” The Mage said monotonously, as if reciting from a script. “We should walk the fields. Bask in the sun.” 

“Does Zoltan often give orders?” Geralt asked Lambert, keeping his voice quiet. 

“He’s in charge when Jaskier is indisposed of,” Lambert whispered back. “He must have permission to order her to do things.”

The vast property gave them plenty of time to roam. Lambert grabbed a peach from one of the trees, and ate it as they walked. The sunny morning was a nice break from the torch lit basement arena. The scent of smoke persisted, and it bothered Geralt. As they rounded another corner, he saw it. Far down the path, a pyre smoldered, little more than embers, but no denying what it once was, the Master kneeling before it. 

Had The Master lost what he’d been fighting for? What would that mean for Geralt and Lambert?

The Master stood when they approached. “I didn’t say anything about coming out here.” His eyes were rimmed red, glassy. 

“Zoltan said it is too beautiful a day to be kept inside,” The Mage recited for him as she had for Geralt and Lambert before. “He said we should walk the fields. Bask in the sun.” 

The Master took a deep breath. “As you should.” 

“We have walked. What will you have me do now, Master?” The Mage asked. 

Geralt didn’t miss the way The Master closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He looked to the pyre, embers still glowing, then back to The Mage. Looked at her like he expected something. Anything. He received nothing. In the absence of a reaction, he crossed his arms, hugging himself.   
  
Taking a closer look at the pyre, Geralt saw bones, not nearly enough for a full skeleton, and the charred remains of a crate. Horror crept over him as he put together the delivery from the previous night, and the evidence in the fire. “Someone sent you part of a body?” 

“Ah, Gods, you’re still out here.” Zoltan marched over, interrupting before The Master could answer. “Jaskier, you need to sleep.” 

“How am I to sleep?” The Master asked. “He sent me body parts. He had Swen killed and dismembered and packed in a fucking crate and sent to me—”

“Jask—”

“Who is to watch over her now?” The Master asked, and Geralt watched as the little cracks he’d noticed over the time he’d spent at the estate completely fracture. The Master paced, heartbeat like a humming bird’s wings, breath choppy. “Who is there to keep her safe?” 

“You need to—”

“There is only a week before the fight,” The Master continued as though he hadn’t heard Zoltan speak. “And a thirty three days before the wedding—”

“And Sylvia needs you to not lose it now.”

The Master tensed, back to them all. 

Zoltan eyed The Master, but kept quiet. Apparently, he knew just the right amount of pressure to put on the other man. He also seemed to notice the spectating Witchers for the first time too. “Pris, how about you take the Witchers and make a nice lunch, hmm?” 

“If it pleases you,” she replied. 

The Master put his hands over his ears, but his fingers curled into the longer strands of his hair, grip tight as he pulled. Geralt knew it had to hurt. 

The Mage took Zoltan’s word as law, and started to move. She glanced back at the two Witchers, and they followed knowing what would happen if they didn’t.

  
°°°

Three days passed before Geralt saw The Master again. He smelled of wine, and staggered into the arena where Geralt trained with both The Rogue and Lambert. The Master looked to The Rogue. “Take Lambert to his room. You can retire for the evening if it pleases you.” 

The Rogue turned to the stands where The Mage sat, then to his very inebriated lord. “If you’re sure…” he frowned, and then shot a wary glance at Geralt. 

“I am.” 

The Rogue sighed, and Lambert shot Geralt a look with an eyebrow raised. Geralt gave a half-shrug. It took a minute before they were out of the arena, the door closed with a loud bang that echoed through the space. 

The Master rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I hate this.” 

“What?” 

“All of it. This plan was set in motion years before I ever came across you. Years before I owned this estate.” His words were slurred, the scent of wine heavy on his breath. “Every time I think I have a piece I can do some damage with, I lose more than I can stand.” He staggered back a step before regaining his balance. “I’m sorry, for whatever it’s worth. Not much, I reckon.” 

Geralt frowned. He couldn’t recall anyone apologizing to him before. “You’re drunk.” 

“It’s the only way I can live with myself,” The Master muttered, so quiet even Geralt almost missed it. “Yet—” he said louder, “—I must become tragically sober, and accept my losses, and continue on, yes? That’s what we all must do. Suffer, and continue.”

Geralt let out a little hum, The Master wasn’t incorrect. Suffer and continue had been his life for years. The Master turned away, leaving his back open. It would have been easy, so easy, to snap his neck, he’d be dead before The Mage could do anything. Geralt remained still. 

“Could you win against one of your brothers?” 

It had been a fear of his for a long time, to be put into an arena, and forced to fight one of his fellow wolves. Some of those men he hardly remembered, older but not one of his trainers, or younger and didn’t want to get attached. There were a few though, a handful that he didn’t think he could bear. Lambert being one. Eskel another. Vesemir. The wolves who were more than comrades, who’d become family. 

The Master frowned. “You could, but you wouldn’t.” 

Geralt waited for some spit words, or an order for The Mage to bring him to his knees. Instead, The Master just looked too old for his youthful face, tired in that world weary way. He made a hand motion, and The Mage walked down the stairs into the arena herself. 

“Pris, take Geralt to his room, please.” 

“Of course, Master.” 

Geralt didn’t argue, just followed The Mage, but paused at the stairs, looking back at where The Master clumsily lowered himself to sit in the sand. The Master sang with an incredible voice, the haunting lyrics dug under his skin, and stayed with him long after the heavy door cut off the sound. 

°°°

The night of the fight left Geralt in a state of dread. His senses were on high alert, still untamed by The Mage in the way Lambert’s remained. He was led into the dining room, left to stand against the wall with Lambert and The Mage. Other Witchers and Mages were brought in as well. The room lined with those who’d been conquered, set out like trophies to be displayed, fawned over, laughed at. 

Across the room he spotted a familiar Witcher. The years had faded Geralt’s memory, and time had been unkind to him. The man’s body was a tapestry of scars, hair shaved, dark furious eyes, lip curled a little at every person who passed. A name on the tip of his tongue. Not a wolf. 

Lambert whimpered beside him. 

Aiden. Of course. Lambert had been good friends with the Cat Witcher. Aiden had even wintered with them once or twice. Geralt hardly recognized him without the mess of wild curls. 

Though he couldn’t give Lambert the comfort he deserved, Geralt reached out a few fingers, tapping the back of Lambert’s hand, small enough to be felt, not so much that anyone else would notice. Lambert took a deep breath, and stood a little straighter. 

More and more nobles poured into the room the closer it got to the dinner hour. Geralt picked The Master out of the crowd. His clothing spoke of power, and money. The bold blues and golds made him easy to keep track of. He smiled at some of the others, kissed the hands of a few of the ladies, moved with a grace that was almost supernatural. He looked at home, in his element, but Geralt remembered the scent of wine on The Master’s breath, remembered him standing by a pyre nearly pulling his hair out, remembered the haunting song that echoed through the arena. The Master was playing a very dangerous game, and he’d be dead already if he wasn’t good at it. 

The nobles were seated, and the noise didn’t lessen any as dinner was served. They all seemed to be able to keep up dozens of conversations while eating. Geralt kept an eye on The Master, the way he barely touched his food, waving his fork as he spoke, conducting his captivated audience. 

Knowing that Lord Gareth Pankratz, the man who collected Wolf Witchers would be in attendance, Geralt studied the faces of those who lined the room. There were beautiful mages, dressed, primmed, and staring blankly. There were Witchers who were defeated, worn down to compliance, and those who had their hands in fists so tight their nails broke skin. 

In the far corner there were two Witchers standing with muzzles on, their golden eyes barely seen, hair long and wild. Geralt realized in a moment how spoiled he’d been by The Master, still a thing owned, but at least cared for. It could be worse. It could be so much worse. 

Some of the nobles mingled when they were finished. A beautiful woman perched upon the table next to The Master forcing him to look up at her. She flirted, and he waxed poetic about her beauty, but Geralt could smell the underlying scent of rotting peaches.

Some of the servants returned to start the clean up, and The Master stood, kissed the back of the woman’s hand as they parted. The Master walked over, and leaned closer to The Mage. “Go along with Vincent, take the Witchers with you.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

The Master waved The Knight over. “Take them to the room for preparation. I’ll join shortly.” 

The Knight gave a sharp nod, and led the way. The group stayed silent until they were in Lambert’s room, Geralt’s own room given to guests staying through the night. Geralt dressed, and hated how bare the clothes left him, how exposed and unprotected. The nobles wanted a show, didn’t they? They wanted to see the blood and bruises upon his flesh. They wanted to see scars, they wanted to see the dangerous thing they controlled doing their bidding.

The leather skirt with sandals made him miss the Path, miss his heavy armour, miss the weight of his swords on his back. 

“You look ridiculous,” Lambert said, breaking the silence. 

Geralt sighed. He couldn’t argue that. 

Lambert rubbed the end of his residual limb. “Be careful.” 

He knew just how deadly one wrong move could be. “I will.” 

The door opened, and The Knight had his hand on his weapon, but it was The Master who stepped in. He patted The Knight’s shoulder as he passed, and came to stand near the Witchers, hands on his hips. “First fight in one-on-one combat. Those who win those rounds will advance to a free for all match at the end. We’ve been matched against Lord Longral who has a mix of Witchers from different schools, four in total and unfortunately with very different skill sets. I wish I could give you more information.” 

“I’ll deal with it.” 

“Even if it’s one of your brothers?” 

Geralt paused at that. Could he? “They aren’t death matches.” 

The Master seemed to breathe a little easier, and gave a sharp nod. “Okay then. We’re in the first match-up. Time to go.” 

Lambert squeezed his shoulder hard, and released. Geralt kept the feeling all the way to the arena doors. 

The sudden noise made him tense, talking, yelling, cheering, demanding their fight, to be entertained. He followed The Master and The Mage all the way down to the best spectating spot, near the gate that led into the arena proper. He’d trained there, he knew it well. 

“Fight well, White Wolf,” The Master said, as he opened the gate at the same time a man on the other side of the arena did. 

Geralt stepped out onto the sand, and got a good look at the other Witcher. Dark hair pulled up into a ponytail, scars littering his pale skin, a spattering of freckles on his shoulders, and a circular scar up on his shoulder. Unfamiliar, a Witcher from another school. It was easier to fight a man he didn’t know, and he was grateful.

The hand to hand combat broke skin, drew blood. Chaos under his skin tingled as he cast signs. He felt much stronger than he had in the last fight, and he’d won that, but his opponent was clearly kept for fights, fed well, trained, nearly feral with the desire to win. Geralt didn’t want to cause any permanent damage, but also didn’t want to lose. The Master said he needed to win this. The Master wanted to take down the Lord who owned a whole pack of Wolves. Geralt wanted that too. A part of him imagined being able to see his brothers again, that like with Lambert they could be under the same roof. Perhaps not as before, but safer. Together. He ached with the desire to have pack again. 

Hope was a dangerous thing, and he’d given up on it years ago. To have it rekindling now—it had the power to destroy him. 

The other Witcher cast a powerful Aard that sent Geralt flying, his back hit the post of the stands, and he heard the blend of indistinct screaming, and cheering. He blinked a few times, tucked and rolled out of the way of the incoming fist. 

He used to fight monsters. How rusty had he become to not be able to fight another Witcher? He’d been exposed to extra mutations, he was known for being stronger, faster, _better_. 

This time when the Witcher ran at him, he dug deep, and cast Aard. Sand flew up, making the arena dusty with the force. The Witcher landed in a dazed heap, and Geralt didn’t let him get up, wrestling until he could get the other witcher into a chokehold, pulling tighter with his anger, his powerlessness, years of frustration until the man’s collar went yellow, and he could hear the other lord shouting ‘YIELD!’

Geralt pushed the unconscious man off of him, and got to his feet. He stared down at a man in the same situation as him. His stomach rolled. 

He would heal, awaken. Logically, Geralt knew that, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He walked his way to the gate where The Master stood waiting. 

“Follow,” was The Master’s order, and he fell into step, back to the room where Lambert awaited. 

“You win?” Lambert asked. 

Geralt nodded. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up a little,” The Master said. At some point during the match someone had to have come in with a large bucket of water, soap, cloths, as well as rolls of bandages. 

Geralt gave himself a quick scrub, not like he wasn’t going to be getting filthy again anyway, but it felt good to get some of the sand off of his sweat slick body. He found a few places where the blows had broken skin, leaving red stains on the cloth. 

The Master let out a displeased hum, and told him to sit in the chair. Geralt obeyed, and The Master tipped his head back with the same gentle nature he’d displayed in the baths, a worried expression on his face as he dabbed the wet cloth on a small cut on his cheekbone. “You’re quite bruised,” he murmured. “Any dizziness?” 

“No.” 

“Good, that’s good.” The Master rinsed the cloth, and dabbed once more, holding it there for a few seconds before pulling it away. “Won’t stop bleeding.” 

“It’ll scab,” Geralt said indifferent to it. It was low enough that he wouldn’t bleed in his eyes and obscure his vision. 

“I’d sew it, but considering the next match would probably just rip it back open.” The Master rung out the cloth, the scars on the back of his hands glistened in the firelight, and all Geralt could smell was rotting peaches. “I need to be getting back to the arena. Best to know the competitors.” 

The Master handed Geralt the cloth back, patted his shoulder, and exited alone. 

The Knight and The Mage both stood by the door, nearly ignorable figures. Geralt dabbed at the cut on his cheek every few minutes, blood continued to trickle out. 

“Did you know who you squared up against?” Lambert asked. 

“No.” 

Lambert didn’t relax any, but nodded. 

Silence held the room as they waited, and waited. 

Geralt slipped into a meditative state, as he would have once before a hunt, mentally preparing himself for what he needed to do. He stayed like that until the door opened once again. 

The scent of rotting peaches mixed with something else, something soured, something sharp. He’d fallen out of touch with his senses, but he bet that The Master was scared, in pain. He opened his eyes, and The Master wasn’t alone. The Rogue was a step behind wearing a murderous scowl, and locked the door when he shut it. 

“My Lord,” The Knight, tucked his head down a little trying to get a better view. “Who did this?” 

“It’s of no matter.”

“That bastard Lord Gareth,” The Rogue said. “He fucked off when I came over.” 

“It’s of no matter,” The Master snapped a little sharper than before, his voice hoarse. When he turned, and tipped his jaw up a little to glare at the other two men, Geralt saw it, the already purpling bruise around The Master’s neck. 

The Rogue didn’t look pleased about being silenced, but kept his complaints to himself. The Knight didn’t look happy about it either. The Mage still stared blankly as if nothing happened at all. Lambert had a little frown. Geralt—well, Geralt had a very complicated reaction, a surprising amount of anger toward he who’d hurt The Master, rather than the pleasure that would have come with any of his former Master’s being put in their place by someone larger, meaner. 

The Master pulled up the second wooden chair, and sat in front of Geralt. “There are four others in this fight. One of them is a Wolf Witcher—Lord Gareth’s won his round.” 

“Did you get a name?” Lambert asked, leaning forward a bit. 

“You know very few Lords actually use their Witcher’s names, and some re-name them anyway. I didn’t get a name, true or false.” He sighed. “I couldn’t even tell you identifying features, the Lord kept him muzzled the entire round.” 

Geralt found a growl rumbling in his chest, and cut it off quick, fully expecting punishment, but as the many times before, nothing came. The Master just looked exhausted, twisting his fingers in his lap. “One is a Cat Witcher, very agile, quick and ruthless—”

“Aiden,” Lambert breathed with certainty. 

“Fuck.” 

The Master pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another fighter was from the Griffin school. He had potions in his system, foolish for a first round, they’ll have worn off by the second, but the toxicity should be too high for them to risk a second. Lord Hirson bets high in the first round, bets low in the second so I wouldn’t worry too much about that Witcher. The Lady Heleve has one from School of the Bear, he got badly injured in his first match-up, but had powerful signs, I wouldn’t count him out yet. Be careful.” 

The Master stood, smoothed the line of his fancy doublet. “I have side bets riding on this fight. Do not lose.” 

Geralt expected a threat, wondered if it was to be heard between the lines. The Master fought for something, had something riding on this fight, any of Geralt’s previous infractions would be nothing like losing this match. Worry lingered in the back of his mind, not so much what would happen to him, but The Master knew how attached he and Lambert were. Geralt wasn’t sure how he would cope being without his friend once again. 

There was a double knock at the door, and The Master nodded. “It’s time.”


	5. Chapter 5

The information about the other Witchers did come in handy. The Master’s observations were accurate. The Bear relied heavily on signs, but Geralt focussed on wearing him out, and targetted the already obvious injuries until Lady Heleve yielded. 

The Cat—Aiden got the drop on Geralt, quite literally since he’d climbed a little of one of the higher stands, not high enough that the Mage attached to his collar would shock him, but enough that he took Geralt down with a flying tackle. 

Geralt growled, knocking Aiden’s hand off his throat, and the Cat hissed. He had to focus, find a way to push away the fact that this was _Aiden_ , and while they hadn’t been friends, they hadn’t been enemies either. He had been someone precious to Lambert, and Geralt didn’t want to leave any lasting damage, although it seemed Aiden would give no such leniency. 

It took quite the scuffle, but Geralt got his hand in position to cast Aard. Aiden went flying, but landed on all fours, quick to charge Geralt once again. He heard a scream behind him, but couldn’t afford to be distracted. Locked in a fight with Aiden, he knew he needed to end things quickly, and for Lambert’s sake, with the least amount of damage done. Unfortunately, Aiden never made anything easy, fighting tooth and nail, literally. The fucker got his teeth in Geralt’s forearm which made him loosen his grip, and Geralt found himself flipped over shoulder, landing in the sand once again. He rolled before Aiden could pounce and cast Yrden to slow the Cat down. 

He heard one of the Lords yell to yield, and then a blur at his side as the victorious Witcher joined the battle between Geralt and Aiden. This Witcher had no qualms about injuring anyone. Geralt backed off a few steps to let it happen, Aiden went limp under the blows and ‘yield’ was shouted from somewhere behind him, Aiden’s collar flashed yellow to signify him out of the fight. 

The Witcher on him seemed to understand that despite the feral way in which he’d fought. Geralt tried to get his breath back, backing away as the final remaining opponent stood, and pushed his long hair back. No muzzle this time, but deep scars on the right side of his face, from temple to jaw. 

Geralt’s knees went weak, heart raced, bile climbing his throat. “Eskel.” 

Eskel tipped his head to the side, cracking his neck with an audible pop. Eyes held no recognition and Geralt felt as if his stomach had been filled with crawling insects. Eskel paced a few steps, eyes on Geralt as he sized him up, snarling loud enough to be heard even at the distance. Worse, when his lips curled, Geralt could see that some of his teeth had been filed into pointed fangs. The horror of seeing his best friend like this left him slow, weakened—and it was swiftly taken advantage of. 

He didn’t fight. Couldn’t. At best he tried to defend himself. He called Eskel by his name. Begged. Tried to invoke some kind of recognition. 

When Eskel bit his shoulder hard enough to pierce skin, and draw blood he heard someone shouting yield, in the edge of his vision, he saw the slight glow between them. Eskel stood, blood on his mouth, and chin. 

The Mages came out to collect, put control over the Witchers once again. Even The Mage did it to Geralt, and it had been so long since his abilities were locked off that he almost broke from it. He watched as a mage approached Eskel, used magic so strong that Eskel’s eyes rolled back with it as he dropped to his knees, trembled even though his limbs were locked. Eskel’s master walked across the arena fearing nothing, that horrifying leather muzzle in hand. 

“Get up,” The Master said, and Geralt looked up at him before slowly making his way to his feet, every part of his body hurt, and he covered his bleeding shoulder with his hand. 

“He fought well,” Eskel’s master said—the one who collected Wolf Witchers, Lord Gareth Pankratz. No, he didn’t deserve a name—The Collector. “Not as well as my pet here—” he gripped Eskel’s hair, and pulled it to the side so he was forced to expose his throat, “—but well.” 

The Master frowned. “I’ll pay you the dues.” 

“Oh I know you will. I’m surprised you made the bet at all,” The Collector smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. This was a performance. There were still Lords and Ladies watching. “Were you so sure that it would win?” 

The Master looked somewhere over The Collector’s shoulder. “He will win next time.” 

The Collector laughed. “Such optimism.” 

The Master lifted his head in a stubborn set. “He was just surprised, that’s all.” 

The Collector moved into The Master’s space. “It was outclassed. It couldn’t even finish that hissing cat.” 

“He would have, if given the time.” 

“Overconfidence will be the death of you.” The Collector fit the muzzle into place, and seemed to take glee in fastening it. “I will be coming by your room to collect, Julian. You will pay your dues immediately.” 

“Of course,” The Master replied, and waited until they left the arena on the other side before he led The Mage and Geralt away. Instead of returning to Lambert’s room, Geralt was escorted further through the estate, but he didn’t care. Whatever punishment awaited him for his failure couldn’t be worse than seeing Eskel like that. 

The Squire stood outside of a door, and he unlocked it for The Master. Geralt was surprised by how lavishly it was decorated. The Master’s own room? Geralt’s stomach dropped, he had memories of punishments like this that he’d rather not repeat. 

“Wit, kindly go tell Lambert that Geralt is fine, minor injures but cared for, and will be spending the night elsewhere.” 

“Yes, My Lord,” Wit rushed off.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, not sure if it would lessen his punishment. 

The Master opened a chest at the end of his bed, and pulled out a small basket full of bandages, needles, and thread. “I’m sorry too.” He set the basket on a table by the window, and pulled out a chair. “Sit.” 

Geralt sat down. The Master’s hands were gentle as he poked, and inspected his cuts, and bruises. Still gentle as he pinched a few of the wounds together for stitches. “I’d have Pris do something about these if she could. Turns out when you bleed the emotions out of someone, it really fucks their ability to heal.” 

“You two were friends once?” Geralt asked in a soft whisper. 

“Oh, the very best,” The Master replied, not at all distracted from his task that he had to take frequent breaks from to stretch his fingers. “We ran wild as children. I was lucky, born the third son to minor nobility, pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things. I was permitted many freedoms my older siblings didn’t have, everyone said I had my mother’s spirit. I spent a lot of time unsupervised, out in the woods, found Priscilla, became best friends, and kept her secret. Never told anyone about her magic. Not a peep.” The Master snipped off the thread, and gently poked around the stitches double checking. 

“But someone found out—” 

“Of course. The whole world went to shit, didn’t it?” The Master looked into the basket, pushing things aside in his search. “There were fewer monsters, more men in power—well, you know. You ended up here. Priscilla ended up captured, and shackled, and broken. The whole world order changed. Ah, here it is.” He pulled out some kind of ointment, and was remarkably gentle as he rubbed it onto the bruises, making them warm and tingly. 

Three sharp bangs on the door, and The Master dropped the jar. “Fuck,” he hissed, bending to pick it up, luckily unbroken. “Coming,” he said loud enough to be heard through the door. He trembled a little, and put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, you stay seated, you don’t respond if he asks you anything.” He looked to Priscilla. “And you see to it that he obeys.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

The Master walked to the door, unlocked and opened it, backing a step. “I’ve got your jewels.” 

The Collector walked in, his eyes only on The Master as he went to the desk in the corner. He opened the drawer, pulled out a bag, and passed it off. The Collector opened it, pulled out an emerald and inspected it before adding it back in with the others. The Collector passed the pouch off to his mage, eyes never leaving The Master. 

“I admit, when I had you married off, I didn’t think you’d have the balls to murder your husband.”

“He died in his sleep. Tragic,” The Master said, dead even. 

“Now, now, lying is bad, Julian.” He grabbed The Master by the wrist and pulled his arm up. “You always were a little deviant, couldn’t help yourself, could you? Tell me, did you heal well enough that you can play?” 

The Master said nothing, yanking his arm back, but not able to break the grip. 

“So angry,” The Collector taunted. “I gave you what you wanted. Had you married off to a man—”

“You had me married off to a monster for your own political gain,” The Master snarled.

The Collector’s left hand came up, covering the bruises already on The Master’s throat. Geralt wanted to stand, but knew he wouldn’t be able to. His hands gripped the seat of the chair, tightened until his knuckles bled white as The Master trembled trying to pull his one arm free, while the other hand tried to remove the hand from his throat. 

“You have been a curse, a plague,” The Collector snarled as the two men were nose to nose. “You’ve brought me nothing but ruin, and I will return it upon you tenfold.” He released The Master who fell to the ground, coughing and gasping. “Sylvia will be wed soon. Did you get your invitation? I put it in the box with that traitor—” 

“Enough!” The Master sobbed. 

The Collector crouched down, and grabbed The Master’s jaw. “Don’t get weak on me now, Julian. You’re at least still good for entertainment. I’ll see you at the next arena.” 

“Wait,” The Master pushed himself to his knees, coughed a bit, but stared up at The Collector. “All in.” 

“What?”

“Everything. I win, I get your Witchers, and Sylvia doesn’t wed, she comes to me.” 

“And when I win? Hmm, I get your one and a half Witchers?” 

“Everything. You get my Witchers. My Estate. Me.” 

“You’re not worth much—”

“But I am entertaining,” The Master snarled. 

“And your mage.” 

The Master glanced at The Mage, eyes welling with tears. “And Priscilla.” 

The Collector glanced at Geralt, then The Mage. “I still can’t believe you went through all the trouble to get this one. I wonder what you had to do to convince your husband to buy out her contract.” He reached out to cup her face, turning it gently left, then right. “Then again, you always were in love with her.” 

“She was my friend, and keep your fucking hands off of her.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll cut your hands from your body,” The Rogue said. Geralt hadn’t even noticed him, his attention to intently focussed on The Master, but he leaned in the doorway using his knife to clean out his nails. “We don’t touch what isn’t ours in Kerack.” 

“Do we have a bet?” The Master asked, reaching for the bed post and pulling himself up. 

The Collector looked to his mage, and nodded. The magical contract created, and The Master nodded to The Mage who’s magic mixed to seal it. “Desperation makes you dumb. I look forward having your mage on her knees. Maybe I’ll make you watch, to witness what it is you’ve done.” The Master stared down at the floor, and The Collector laughed. “Oh, chin up. You’ve got a few weeks of use out of her yet.” 

With that, he and his mage left, and The Rogue locked the door behind them. 

Geralt felt sick, and knew it didn’t come from the blows to his head, nor the ache in his shoulder. He looked to The Mage who still stared blankly, then to The Master who was aggressively wiping away tears. 

“You shouldn’t have been alone with him,” The Rogue said.

“He thinks I’m weak,” The Master said, voice ruined. “Good. Best to be underestimated.” 

“I didn’t hear all the details of that bet, a little late to the party. Fill me in, just what are the terms?” The Rogue reached out, but The Master flinched back, walking away. 

“You’d be wise to take Wit and get far from here.” 

The Rogue put his hands over his face and groaned. “What did you do?” 

“What I had to. Now, did you need something?” 

“The Lady Heleve is requesting to see Lambert.” 

“Refuse.” 

“She’s offering—”

“I don’t care. His time is not for trade.” He turned his attention to Geralt. “The Cat, the one you and Lambert called Aiden—think he can be tamed?” 

“He and Lambert were close,” Geralt said. “He might be able to get through to Aiden, but there is no guarantee.” 

The Master walked back to the desk, and pulled out another small pouch. “Offer this to Lord Burit in exchange. Word is he’s in a bit of financial ruin, might be looking for a quick cash out.” 

The Rogue took the pouch, weighed it in his hand. “Sure you should be alone?” 

“He’s done his power show. I’ll be fine.”

The Rogue sighed heavily, but left them. 

As if nothing had happened, The Master sat across from Geralt once more, returned to his task of applying the ointment to Geralt’s bruises. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Geralt muttered. He’d expected punishment, instead he received papering. 

“I wonder, in the end, how poorly my scales will be balanced. Did the good I do balance out the evil I’ve committed? I doubt it. I send you into the slaughter, put your life at risk, use it as a token in a bet, ask you to harm those you care about—tending to the wounds I’ve caused won’t balance a single thing out, will it?” 

Geralt knew he should just keep his mouth shut, and be thankful he isn’t getting any number of the punishments he’s taken before. The words were poison on his tongue, he had to spit them out. “He’s your father.” 

The Master’s fingers stopped, trembled, then continued the small circular motions over the bruises on his ribs. “Yes.”

“And Sylvia is—”

“My sister, youngest. Last surviving and in good standing.” The Master put the lid on the ointment. “My father wasn’t always a monster, you know. He was a good man once, or maybe I was simply a child with blinders on.” He walked to a basin of water and rinsed his hands. “My eldest brother, Jacques, was the apple of his eye. Jacques held all the responsibilities of the first born son. My other brother, Samuel had lesser duties, but was still kept under close watch. But me, the third son, hardly a second glance. My sisters were younger, Tala and Sylvia were doted upon. I was mostly ignored. I got away with a great many things. I didn’t have much for responsibilities, I just… slipped through the cracks.” 

The Master walked to the chest at the end of the bed, opened it, and pulled out a set of clothes and held them out for Geralt. “I know you’d probably rather a bath first, but it’s best we stay in tonight.” 

Geralt took the clothes with a quiet whisper of ‘thanks.’ 

“I was fifteen when I fell ill,” The master continued, his attention on things inside the chest, giving Geralt privacy to change. “Then Tala got it. Then Jacques, and Samuel, and Sylvia, and even our mother. And one by one they died. Save me and Sylvia. It broke my father. Days of watching your loved ones struggle to drink a bit of water, to breathe, to speak. Days after of funeral pyres. One can’t kill an illness, can’t truly be mad with it, now can you? He needed someone to blame, and I was the first ill, I got my siblings sick, my poor mother. How reckless. A plague. A curse. Now a person, a person you can hate, you can cut all that rage into… a person you can hurt as you have been hurt.” 

The agony in the words hung heavy, and Geralt reached out, touching The Master’s shoulder. 

The Master looked over his shoulder, up at Geralt. “Don’t look at me like I’m worthy of being pitied. He wasn’t wrong. I did murder my husband, and that’s far from my only sin. Sylvia is the last of my family, she’s only fourteen, and he’s marrying her off as he did with me.” The Master’s eyes were glassy, but not a tear slipped free. “Not to a man who will even remotely respect her but to an aging minor lord with a lot of money and a history of dead wives.”

Geralt could understand putting everything on the line for family. Wouldn’t he do the same for Lambert? For Eskel? 

It was almost a certainty that he’d be pitted against Eskel once again. Could he win on the promise that Eskel would be with them once more, along with the other Wolf Witchers The Collector had under his thumb? 

“Oh, I forgot. Priscilla, release Geralt’s abilities.” 

Geralt felt the bindings snap, but he was more focussed on the fact that The Master had used his proper name. He hadn’t even known that The Master knew it. Maybe Geralt wasn’t the only one distancing himself from people by using monikers. 

“Why are you telling me all this?” The Master raised a brow at the question, and Geralt figured he’d finally spoken too much. 

“We’re in this together, aren’t we? You win or we’re both fucked.” 

“No plan b?”

The Master frowned. “I’m working on it.” 

“He will kill you, if you go back.” 

The Master massaged his hands. “Oh, I don’t know about that. He’s far more fond of breaking someone, owning them completely. If death came with me losing this game, then I’d be far less worried. There is a kindness in a swift death, no? In any case, you should rest, it’s been a long night,” he graciously extended a hand toward the bed. 

Geralt tensed, but The Master just walked to his desk and sat down. “Priscilla, sleep on the couch.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

As if feeling Geralt’s stare, The Master glanced over. “What? She’s smaller than you, and I’m hardly leaving her unattended in her room tonight with my father prowling around the estate.” 

“You’re not… going to sleep in the bed?” 

The Master gave a sad little smile. “No. You need it. Besides—” he opened the top, long drawer and pulled out a stack of paper. “I’m horribly behind on business, and I’d hate for Zoltan to give me another lecture.” He then pulled open the bottom drawer, it rattled with glass, and picked up a bottle of wine, and pulled the cork free. “Rest easy, White Wolf.”

Geralt pulled the blankets down, laid on his back, then turned his head toward The Master, and watched him drink straight from the bottle and glare down at the paperwork. Young, pretty, _complicated_. Did he understand that he’d been trapped every bit as much as Geralt had? Different bindings, but the same violent game. In another life, they might have been friends. 

Maybe time still remained for that yet.

“Geralt,” Geralt whispered. 

“Hmm?” The Master looked over with a raised brow. 

“I prefer it when you call me Geralt.” 

The Master blinked, stared long enough that Geralt wanted to turn away, but didn’t. The Master smiled, a little soft curve of his lips, and it made him finally look his age rather than weighed down by the world. “I would like it if you called me Jaskier… not in public of course. We have our parts to play, but like this… Jaskier.” 

“Okay. Jaskier.” The name rolled off his tongue, soft and sweet.

The Master—Jaskier’s cheeks turned pink before he turned back to his work. 


	6. Chapter 6

When Geralt woke after a good night of sleep, he noticed that Jaskier was still at his desk, hunched over face down on the documents, a quill loose in his fingers, and the wine bottle empty. On the couch, The Mage still laid, but her eyes were open. 

A bang on the door made Jaskier jump, and the bruising on his neck looked worse in the morning light. He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, abandoning the documents to answer the door. “Ah, Wit.” 

“Good morning, My Lord. The guests are starting to come to the dining hall for breakfast, you’d be amiss—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a moment. Find Vincent for me, send him here.” 

“At once,” Wit replied with all too much cheer for so early in the morning. 

Jaskier shut the door, and their eyes met. “How did you sleep, Geralt?” 

“Well. Thank you.” 

Jaskier nodded, and retrieved a pot from his desk. Makeup. At the mirror, he started to apply it over the bruises, hiding them from view. “Priscilla, when I leave, you will stay with Geralt until my return. No one but Wit or I may enter.” 

“Understood, Master.” 

Jaskier walked around the room, fixing his hair, applying kohl to his eyes. Geralt looked away as the man changed into a different outfit. 

“Jaskier?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why aren’t you keeping me with Lambert?” 

“For the same reason I made Pris sleep here last night. Until my father leaves, I’m not leaving any of my pieces more vulnerable than necessary. Keeping you two apart ensures that even if he tries to take you two by force, or somehow get to either of you in anyway, he needs to do so in two different parts of the estate. Not an easy task.” He fixed his collar. “I’ll send Wit up with breakfast for you both.” He waved his hand around. “Stay in this room, do anything you wish so long as it doesn’t harm Priscilla.” 

Geralt nodded, and watched Jaskier go. Out of bed, he stretched, paced a bit in the space before curiosity got the best of him. He went to the desk, and Priscilla didn’t stop him, so he started to read through the papers. 

Purchases for bolts of fabric, horses, foods, barrels, wood. 

Overly polite messages that surely had hidden meanings that Geralt couldn’t decipher.

Inquiries about a boat. 

The trade of jewels for far less expensive items. An emerald for two goats? Two diamonds for an order from the apothecary? 

With nothing more on top of the desk, he tried the drawers. More jewels. Some coin. A tin that had some red pigmented balm inside. A poppet made of straw. Parchment, extra quills, a journal. He did a quick skim of the journal, but found it utterly impersonal save for a few passages that were in the centers of pages. 

His heart sped up when he read them, there was a beat, a rhythm and rhyme to it all. Lyrics. One such passage broke his heart in only four lines. Another had several lines crossed out, but the ones that remained were full of rage. One of the pages were damaged by water, and the name Sylvia stood out. Geralt remembered the scars on Jaskier’s hands, the taunt ‘did you heal well enough to play?’ What instrument had he favoured? Guilt started to settle in for prying, his mind had shifted The Master to Jaskier, a captor to an ally. He put the journal back where it belonged, one of the quills over top. 

The bottom drawer had another bottle of wine, and a glass figurine. He shut it when he heard someone coming, and sat on the side of the bed instead. 

Wit entered with a couple of plates, and kicked the door shut. He handed Priscilla her plate first, then Geralt. “Be back in a few with some water!” 

Geralt ate fast while Priscilla slowly picked at the food. Wit didn’t take much time returning with water for them both, and Geralt guzzled it down. 

“The guests are starting to leave,” Wit said, as he walked over to the windows, and looked outside. No more conversation followed. Geralt, unsure of his freedoms remained silent, and The Mage who had none did the same. 

He was used to the quiet, to the wait, and it was hours before Jaskier returned. “Everyone has left. Thank Melitele. Wit, return the White Wolf to his room. Let Lambert see him.” 

“Yes, sir!”

Geralt watched as Jaskier just collapsed face first onto his bed, not even caring that Geralt had slept in it sweaty, and dirty, or hadn’t fixed the blankets. Jaskier didn’t even get his feet on the bed, yet Geralt could already hear his heartbeat slow into sleep before the door even shut behind him. 

Evidence of the events were all around. Servants were cleaning up the mess left behind. The scents of food, sweat, fear, rage, and that awful fancy perfume some of the nobles wore were hard hard to block out. It didn’t take that long to get to the other side of the estate, to be deposited in his room, and only minutes after that did Wit return with Lambert in tow. 

The second the door shut behind Wit, Lambert pulled him into a hug. 

“Did I worry you?”

“What? No.” Lambert backed off quickly. “Figured you’d be fine, you’re too stubborn not to be.” 

“Well, that’s why I was put into the fight and not you.” 

“Hey, fuck you, I lost half an arm,” he said, waving his dangling shirt sleeve that hadn’t even been knotted in the way Geralt usually saw him wear it. “Fuck, I still would probably put up a better fight than you.” 

Geralt laughed, surprised by the realization that this had perhaps been one of their most normal interactions. “I did lose.”

“Yeah.” Lambert sighed, he sat down heavily on the end of the bed. “Heard it was Eskel in the final round.”

“It was.” It made him feel sick to just think about it. He sat down next to Lambert. “He didn’t recognize me.”

“At all?”

“No.” Geralt pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, exposing the stitches from the deep teeth marks. “Gave me a parting gift.”

“Fuck!” Lambert leaned in, getting a better look. “Those don’t even look human.”

“Some of his teeth had been filed—”

“What?” Lambert went pale, and dragged his hand down his face. He was up in a flash, pacing angrily, and Geralt stayed quiet. 

He’d had the night to come to terms with it, not that it made him feel any better, but he’d compartmentalized it, knew what he needed to do next. “There will be another fight. I’ll have to win next time.” With that, Geralt went on to explain more about The Collector, his relation to Jaskier, and the bet that had been made.

Lambert continued pacing the entire time, all pent up energy and nothing to throw it at. “What about Aiden?”

“I don’t know if the Lord took the deal or not,” Geralt admitted. “Jaskier was exhausted by the time he returned.” 

Lambert finally leaned against the wall by the window, staring out. “By this time in the year we’d all be starting to head toward the Blue Mountains.” 

“Hmm.” 

“I fucking hated that place, wished I’d never return, and now? Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see it again. To have all our brothers in one place. To be… whole.” 

The door opened, and startled them both, Geralt jumping to his feet. Jaskier came strolling in with his eyeliner on his right eye smudged all the way to his temple. Geralt wondered who’d woken him, he’d been dead to the world when Geralt had left. “I reckon you’ve filled Lambert in on our little predicament.” 

“A predicament is a nice word for clusterfuck, but okay,” Geralt barely heard Lambert mutter. 

“Yes,” Geralt said. 

“Good, good. Now, I’m going to need Lambert. And you—” Jaskier waved at Geralt’s everything, “—need a bath. Go with Wit. Lambert I do fear your old friend is in quite a state, I’ll be keeping Pris with us as a deterrent for outright attacks—”

“Aiden?”

“Well, yes, didn’t Geralt tell you?”

“You didn’t tell me the Lord took the deal,” Geralt said. 

“Oh?” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck. “Did I not? My apologizes. Now, did you wish to see him or—”

“Yes!” 

Geralt grabbed Lambert by the dangling shirt sleeve, and tied it in a knot, just in case Aiden tried using the excess fabric as leverage. “Good luck.” 

Lambert just patted his shoulder in thanks. 

°°°

Geralt spent more time with The Rogue over the next few days, working out in the fields until midday, picking the last of the harvest, as the frost starting to settle in and kill the crops. 

When he’d asked about his fellow Witchers, he’d been assured that Lambert was fine, but Aiden hissed and tried to get violent with anyone that wasn’t Lambert. They were locked up in a room together, but still monitored. 

In the evenings, Geralt and The Rogue trained in the arena with weapons, and Geralt felt stronger, more focussed than he had in years. He went to bed alone, and awoke to another day just the same. 

After a week of the same routine, he was led down the hall he knew went to Jaskier’s office, a welcome change. He could hear the sound of strings being played, but it was all wrong in a way he didn’t have the musical education to explain but felt in his soul. The Rogue knocked twice, and opened the door. 

Jaskier sat with elbow on desk, head in hand, watching The Mage play the lute. She still looked straight ahead. Each plucking of the string was precise but stiff fingered, lacking heart. Jaskier turned to them, and Geralt could see the lines of grief for a woman still there but not. He sighed. “That’s enough, Pris. Thank you.” 

She immediately stopped playing, and set the lute aside. 

“Thank you, Elias, you may leave.” 

The Rogue gave a nod, and shut the door on his exit. 

Geralt took a seat without being asked. Didn’t even consider it until he’d already sat down, but Jaskier smiled. 

“Anything new with Aiden?” Geralt asked. 

“Well, he’s taken well to Lambert’s company, and it’s actually why I asked you here. Lambert thinks he’s calmed enough to see you. Certainly not to hear of our deal, our bets, nothing of our greater schemes, but—” Jaskier’s fingers moved in such a way that Geralt, after seeing Priscilla play only moments before, knew he was unconsciously working his way through chords, “—if you wish, you could join them this afternoon.” 

Geralt nodded. “I’d like that. We weren’t close, but we still knew each other. Perhaps he knows things that may even help us.” 

“That would be a bonus.” 

“Is that not why you purchased him?”

“An extra fighter will never not be a good thing. One can never entirely know how things will play out, best to have an extra piece on the board, isn’t it?” 

Geralt nodded. 

Jaskier looked like he wanted to say more. 

“What?” 

Jaskier looked at Geralt a long moment, before sighing. “I’m just concerned. There are many pieces in this game that I have no control over, others I don’t want control over but must, and those, like you, who I…” Jaskier looked down at his hands. “I have to put you into a terrible position, and hope you can save us all.” 

“No pressure,” Geralt said dryly. 

“Is there anything else I can do? Potions are legal in arenas—” 

“Maybe,” Geralt said, considering his options. 

“Well, let me know.” 

Geralt nodded, and glanced over at The Mage. “Did you play the lute before?”

“Yes.” 

“Can you still?” 

Jaskier held up his hand, and Geralt noticed a slight tremble before the man tipped it back and forth. “For a little while, not as well as I used to, causes my hands to ache—especially in the winter.” 

“Your father do that to you?”

Jaskier took a deep breath, then nodded. 

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t even ask what I did.”

In truth, Geralt thought it for getting ill, for that illness passing along his family, but it sounded like that assumption was off. “I don’t believe you’re the kind of man who could do anything deserving of any such punishment.” 

Jaskier’s lip trembled, and he nodded, before looking down and rubbing his hands again. “Thank you,” he whispered. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take you to see Lambert and Aiden.” 

°°°

In the middle of the room stood Lambert, a wall of man between Aiden and Geralt as the door shut the three witchers in the room together. Lambert kept his eyes on Aiden. “Remember what we talked about, don’t be a dick.”

Aiden made a small hissing sound, and rolled his eyes. “Not some disobedient pup,” he said, voice deeper than Geralt remembered. “No hard feelings for the arena. Eskel still has one hell of a right hook.” 

“You two fought before the arena?” Had they crossed paths before? Been owned by the same master? Been put against each other in arenas long past?

Aiden’s brows pinched. “We trained together when I wintered at Kaer Morhen.” He then looked to Lambert, a little lost. “Right? I did that?” 

“Yeah, sounds right,” Lambert said softer than he would with anyone else. 

“He’s fucking gone,” Aiden said as he leaned back against the wall, but it didn’t put Geralt into a sense of security. He knew just how fast a Cat Witcher could pounce. 

“We’ve all been there,” Lambert said. “You didn’t even recognize Geralt.” 

“Nah, you didn’t go up against him, Little Lamb,” Aiden said, and Lambert scowled at the nickname. “Eskel’s gone, gone, gone.” 

Geralt felt a cold fury settle in his bones. “No he isn’t. He’s going to be fine.” 

“Oh really? I’ve heard about that fuckin’ lord collects Wolf Witchers. People in Lettenhove say they can always hear howling in the night. No one goes close to that estate. Everyone is afraid the dogs might be let off their muzzles, their chains. Each and everyone of them are snapped in the head. Nothing but vicious animals and the best thing that could happen to them is to be put down.” 

Geralt attacked before he could think, the words rattled in his mind, thoughts of Eskel, of others he knew but didn’t even have the comfort of knowing them to be alive or dead. Lambert got in the way, tucking low enough to miss the wild swing, and catch Geralt around the ribs, planting his feet to make sure he didn’t get to Aiden. 

“Knock it off!” Lambert shouted, trying to keep hold with his full arm, the residual limb kept hitting his side ineffectively. 

For Lambert’s sake, he took a step back, but continued to glare at Aiden. 

Aiden shrugged. “You might not want to hear it, but I’m right.” 

Geralt turned on his heel, and banged on the door. The Rogue peeked in. “I want to go back to my room,” Geralt said, and was passed off to The Squire. 

And in that room he caused damage, he hit the walls, tossed the chair, the side table, and heard the wood crack. He tossed the mattress, and the bar of soap fell through the slats. He bent to pick it up, and sat on the floor of his destroyed room, rubbing the soap, inhaling the clean mint, but Aiden’s words kept replaying in his mind. 

_Best thing that could happen to them is to be put down._

Eskel wasn’t lost for good. 

He couldn’t be. 

°°°

One night, a week before the arena that would decide their fate, Geralt found himself in Jaskier’s office, just the two of them and a bottle of wine that became two. Jaskier picked up the lute, plucked a few notes before massaging his hand, and trying again. It was a horribly haunting tune that made the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck stick up. 

“I have an exit plan,” Jaskier said. “Should we succeed. I know a place where there are still free mages, free Witchers.” 

Geralt felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Free Witchers? “The mountains?” 

“No, those are mostly patrolled by Nilfgaard now. Lazily, but I doubt there is anyone hiding around.” He set the lute down, and turned on the couch, staring at Geralt. “Skellige.” 

“Really?” 

“Thing is, when this shitshow started it was mostly the powerhouses of Redania, Nilfgaard and—”

“Cintra,” Geralt recalled, that was where he’d been captured, where his whole horrible journey began. 

“Between the three, and those religious fuckers saying it was Melitele’s will, pretty much everywhere else fell into suit—”

“But Skellige worships different gods, and stubborn in their traditions—”

“And who was going to sail out to try and fuck with them? If the harpies and sirens didn’t get them, the raiders would. Skellige is as safe as we can get. Should something happen and I not be able to go with you, you need to get to the port in—”

“We’re going together,” Geralt insisted. 

Jaskier shut his eyes and plowed on ahead. “The port in Novigrad and find a man named Hjalmar An Craite—”

“I know him.” 

“Really?”

“Well, kind of, I mean he was a child last I saw him, but I did a few jobs for his father back when…” 

“I understand,” Jaskier said, not making Geralt revisit the part of his life long gone. “He’s doing small jobs around the port until the end of the month, and he’s ready to sail whenever… well, whenever however many of us get there, get there. He’s got a small crew, and a pretty big boat. He knows the seas, he’ll get us to safety.” 

“Already paid him off?”

“Handsomely,” Jaskier replied. “My father thought to break me, but he left me off quite well in the finance department. I mean, I did have to—” 

“I know,” Geralt whispered, not wanting Jaskier to have to say it. They both had endured their fair share of trauma. 

Jaskier grabbed the bottle from the floor, and took a long drink. “Should something happen to me, you’ll get Sylvia to Skellige, right?”

“It’s all or nothing, you’ll be getting her there yourself—”

“But just in case,” Jaskier said, lurching forward, off balance with the drink and accidentally head-butting Geralt. “Ow! Sorry!” He then reached out and rubbed Geralt’s forehead like he could make it better. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. And I will, should it go wrong, I’ll do my best to get your sister out.” 

Jaskier’s eyes went glassy, and this time the tears did fall. “Thank you.” 

Their relationship was complicated, twisted and tangled thorns in Geralt’s own mind, and yet, somehow, it had grown so important to keep Jaskier at his side. So much so that Geralt wondered if he’d finally gone mad, to care for a man who was his master so deeply, to believe he’d one day be free. 

The man next to him wasn’t a monster, Geralt knew monsters of the grotesque kind, and of the human, and Jaskier was neither. Jaskier was a man making the best of a terrible situation, trying so hard to walk a tightrope, and not fall into the peril one wrong step would bring. 

Geralt reached out, and grabbed Jaskier’s hand, held it in the space between them, resting on the couch. Jaskier’s grip tightened for a moment before his weak fingers went loose, but stayed, secure in Geralt’s own. 

The scent of fresh peaches grew stronger as Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder, pulse steady. Even with The Mage off in her room, even with Geralt’s abilities left untempered, Jaskier didn’t fear him—and every bit as surprising, Geralt didn’t want to harm him, not out of protection of self, but because he wanted Jaskier alive and well, wanted to see him through to the other side of this madness. 

The hum of some soft song soothed him as much as Jaskier’s sweet peach scent did, an old lullaby, or perhaps the notes to a love song. The quiet, peaceful moment felt like a hug, and Geralt wished he could live inside it forever. 


	7. Chapter 7

The final week went by in a blur of training for Geralt, and he knew Jaskier had prepared too in his own way—with mind and money, making the right connections, sending the right supplies. 

“Hopefully the weather will hold,” The Squire said as he got the horses ready. Geralt leaned along the fence, Lambert and Aiden to his right. The Mage, Priscilla, stood to his left in a beautiful cloak lined with furs. Even if she wasn’t really _there_ , Jaskier obviously still cared for his friend’s comfort. 

Zoltan helped load the last of their carts, but would be remaining at the estate. Geralt overheard him wishing Jaskier good luck. The Witchers were all put in one carriage while Jaskier, Priscilla, and The Rogue sat in the other. The Knight and The Squire were both on horseback along with a small band of men to keep them protected for the journey. 

The day went by slow, watching the trees pass, bouncing slightly as the wheels got caught in potholes on the roads. Most of it passed in silence, eventually Aiden and Lambert got to teasing one another and if he shut his eyes he could almost imagine them in another time, another place where they were free. 

Soon, maybe they would be again. Not without new scars, but free once more, built more solid for what they had endured. 

The dusk had everyone out, stretching limbs, taking time to relieve themselves, to gather firewood, they’d be sleeping out in the field, and Geralt relished it. A night of sleeping outdoors, staring up at the stars, trying to remember the constellations he once knew. 

The guards took shifts, and Geralt tried to sleep, restless with anxiety brought on by the impending match, the fact that he would have to once again face Eskel. 

Morning came too soon. Breakfast was served, supplies were packed, and they were back on the road again. 

The trip took another night, and half another day before they arrived in Lettenhove. The moment they stepped out of the carriages, Geralt could smell the fear and anxiety coming off of Jaskier in waves. Rotting peaches. The man stared at the estate, the one he’d grown in, the one his siblings and mother had died in, the one he’d been horrifically abused in, perhaps he’d even been wed here, pawned off to a man who would only bring him harm in exchange for some political gain for his father. While Geralt could sense it by smell, Jaskier kept up the pretense of being unbothered, straight faced, shoulders back. 

He heard Jaskier speaking with Vincent. “Stay with the Witchers at all times. I will not have them toyed with before the match.” And then, he reached out for Priscilla. “You and me, I’m sorry I have to bring you back here again.” 

She didn’t reply, but did grab his arm when he offered it to her, more of a reaction to a silent command than her own will. They looked powerful together, and Geralt could only hope that she could keep him safe here, her presence had done nothing that night in Jaskier’s room. 

Vincent led them through the estate, guided as well by one of the servants. Lambert stayed to Geralt’s side, close enough to touch, snarling at anyone who came too close. Aiden walked a step behind them, guarding their backs. They’d fallen into a formation so easily. Geralt knew they were doing whatever they could to protect him before the match. 

They arrived safely at the room, knowing they’d be expected to change clothes before the dinner. The room held the scent of pain, and blood. 

Eskel’s blood. 

°°°

The dinner before the fight was smaller than most. Geralt didn’t recognize most of the lords, perhaps they were local, some of them didn’t even have a Witcher, nor a Mage. They were coming to bear witness. Geralt saw The Squire at Jaskier’s back, keeping him safe, odd. He could see Vincent further down the table, keeping an eye out. The Rogue was missing. The small band of men who’d been hired guards were also mingling, but keeping eyes on Jaskier. Geralt could only hope that however much Jaskier had offered them for their loyalty was enough. Hired men often went to the most coin. 

Jaskier didn’t eat much, didn’t mingle with the crowd afterward. He spent most of his time glaring at his father. The sister, Sylvia, wasn’t around. Geralt was sure he’d have picked up a reaction from Jaskier if he’d seen her. 

They went back to the rooms to prepare, Geralt breathed only through his mouth, trying not to pick up on the scent of Eskel’s blood in the room. 

Jaskier muttered something under his breath, something quick, to a beat—a common prayer to Melitele. 

Geralt, ready as he ever would be, said his goodbyes to Lambert and Aiden, fearing that his loss would make it a final one. 

“Kick his ass,” Lambert said, hugging him tight. “We can fix him if we’re free, we’re all dead if not.” 

It didn’t inspire him to fight, if anything it made things worse. Geralt understood how far gone his brother was, and yet, to lose would kill another. 

He walked down the hall with Jaskier and Priscilla, outside the cold wind howled, and the arena was flat with metal fences. On the other side, Geralt saw Eskel pacing, could hear him snarling over the wind, he wouldn’t make it easy, but they couldn’t afford to lose. 

Jaskier gasped. “Sylvia?”

Sure enough, across the way, standing next to Lord Gareth Pankratz was a young woman, her soft brown hair up in some elaborate half-do, dress to her ankles, a heavy cloak around her shoulders, looking wary at the pacing Witcher nearby. 

Geralt looked to Jaskier, and he watched as the emotion bled from those blue eyes, nothing but ice cold resolve left. For a man who looked a little on the frail side, he had a spine of steel. 

Jaskier gave Geralt a sharp nod. “Good luck.” 

The moment hung between them, and Geralt feared the moment it broke. There had never been an arena, nor battle he’d dreaded quite like this one. There were so many lives that hung in the balance of his skill; Jaskier and his young sister, those of the estate, Lambert, Aiden. Who knew how many of his Witcher brothers were in the cellars of The Collector? Captured, collared, kept. 

He wouldn’t lose. 

The grass of the arena was trampled down, brown and dead in spots. There were bits torn up. Blood on the fence. He walked in, and saw The Collector remove the muzzle from Eskel’s face before his guards shoved him into the arena. The spectators were loud, but Geralt focussed on Eskel’s heartbeat, faster than expected, but his eyes were black from potions, veins of his face darkened as well. 

Maybe he should have considered potions a little more carefully, but given how long it had been since they’d been in his system, he feared side-effects would outweigh the good. He wanted absolute control of his body, he felt strong, he didn’t want the toxic effects poisoning him, not here, not now. 

He could beat Eskel. His brother might have more powerful signs, but when it came down to it, he knew how Eskel fought, and how to best get around his defenses. He could—he would beat his brother. 

Eskel cast Aard, ensuring an end to speculation. 

Geralt couldn’t think of the horrors his brother had endured. Lambert had been right, they could only help him heal if they all managed to get out of this fucking place. Eskel would forgive him eventually. It was his way. 

Geralt fell back on relying on Quen just to keep Eskel’s signs from causing too much damage early on. Eskel walked different, stalked like a predator, and Geralt wondered how much of his knowledge about Eskel’s fight style he could still rely on. Eskel pounced, but Geralt dove to the side, rolling back up to his feet. 

They fought as skin broke, fought as bruises formed, fought with fists, and fought with signs. The violence garnered cheers from the onlookers. It sickened him, but he couldn’t take some kind of moral high ground here. 

He got a good punch in, wasn’t even sure if it was nose or jaw that gave under his fist, but he managed to bring Eskel off balance, to the ground, and he didn’t let up. His hands ached from the punches he continued to deliver, his heart aching as he waited for the match to be called, waited for Lord Gareth Pankratz to yield for his fighter. 

Only he didn’t. 

Eskel’s face was a bloodied mess under his fist, and Geralt feared what damage he would cause by continuing. In that moment of indecision and unbearable guilt, Eskel flipped them over, and had no such remorse. 

Everything hurt, and he fought to block the blows. Adrenaline could only do so much, and there was blood or sweat or both in his right eye leaving his vision blurred. The world seemed fuzzy around the edges, and one of Eskel’s fists viciously hit his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. 

Vesemir would be disappointed, but Geralt panicked, unable to breathe, his vision blurred, waves of dizziness, the pain—he was losing consciousness and there was nothing he could do about it. 

For all his extra mutations, all the training, everything he had at stake, he was still going to lose—

“Yield! I yield! Stop!” he heard Jaskier shout, his voice ruined, he sounded like he was crying. “Please, stop!”

Jaskier begging for the match to end was the last thing Geralt heard. 

°°°

When Geralt woke, he came to with the realization that he’d failed. Not only himself, but everyone had been counting on him. He was chained to some metal ring in the floor by his collar. _Fuck._

“You awake?” The words seemed to come from a great distance, but he rolled onto his back, turned his head to the side, and there, chained to the wall was Lambert, Aiden, and even Vincent. He hoped that Elias had taken Jaskier’s advice, had grabbed Wit when things went sideways and bolted. “Ger, answer me,” Lambert said, pulling as far from the wall, and as close to Geralt as he could manage. 

His mouth was full of blood and he tried to spit it on the floor, most of it ended up just spilling from his lips, streaking down his cheek. One of his teeth sat in the mess. 

“Geralt!”

“Yeah,” Geralt muttered. “Jaskier?”

“I don’t know, contract took effect, and that prick had his Mage put us the fuck down anytime we walked out of line,” Lambert said. 

Aiden pulled his chained wrist a bit, frowning. Geralt expected some hissing insults, but instead, Aiden seemed to just quietly settle in his spot on the floor, looking over at Lambert with a painful kind of longing. 

“Was I out long?” Geralt shifted a bit, pain flaring through his shoulder, and he rolled to the other side to get into a seated position, his head still bowed, the chain not long enough to sit straight. 

“Maybe a half hour, I’m not sure,” Lambert replied.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

He expected Lambert to blame him, to curse him, even if he wouldn’t mean it later, Geralt predicted rage, but was instead met with a soft sigh. “You tried.” 

Somehow, the defeat was worse than blame. 

His abilities were tempered by the collar around his throat, no longer at the will of Jaskier and Priscilla, but of The Collector and his mage. He wondered where Priscilla was, and immediately tried to wipe it from his mind. There was no good outcome for any of them. 

A scream came from the hallway, a constant string of curses. Jaskier. 

The door swung open, and Jaskier was trying to fight off two guards who were dragging him by the arms into the room. Both guards kicked him in the back of the knees brining him to land on them heavily. “Tell me,” he said, looking to the Witchers and Vincent in turn and clearly relieved before he looked up at one of the guards. “Tell me, did your mother fuck a goat or were you birthed by one?” A gloved fist came down hard on Jaskier’s face, blood dribbled from his mouth, and he laughed. “Ah, you don’t know do you? Your mother a woman who resembles a goat then? How long has the goat fucking gone on in your fami—” the second blow had him hanging loose in their grip for a moment before he swung back.

Behind them, The Collector walked in. “You’ve been nothing but trouble, Julian.” 

“Oh, I am a delight.” 

The Collector smiled, and reached toward the doorway. “Priscilla, come here.” 

Jaskier tensed, glared up at his father. 

Priscilla no longer had her cloak, her cheeks a little pink from the cold. She walked up to The Collector, no fear, no apprehension. She stopped in front of him, eyes staring through. “Yes, Master?” 

The Collector pulled a small dagger from his pocket, and Jaskier started to fight the hold, but the guards kept him on his knees. Geralt tried to draw enough strength, to do something, anything, he yanked on the chain that held him on his hands and knees like a dog, but got nowhere.

The Collector walked behind Priscilla, arm around her body, knife on her neck. 

Jaskier let out a low, wounded sound. “Please, don’t—don’t hurt her.” 

“You have taken so much from me,” The Collector said. “Time to even the scales.”

An explosion shook the walls, and everyone’s attention shifted. The grip on the dagger loosened. Guards ran by the door, and The Collector abandoned Priscilla who appeared utterly unaffected by the fact that her life had just been a hair from being taken. 

The Collector opened the door, and stepped out. There was more shouting, and his mage came up to him. “It came from the cell.” 

“No. NO!” Enraged, The Collector shoved Priscilla out of his way as he came to grab Jaskier by the hair, and forced him to make eye contact. “What have you done now?”

Jaskier spat blood in his face, smiled wild and reckless. “Plan B.” 

A blast shot down the hallway. Geralt heard entire walls or perhaps a ceiling collapse, dust clouds made it hard to see, hard to breathe, he heard Lambert coughing behind him. 

The screams from the hallway were muffled, the grinding sound of stone on stone as the integrity of the estate shook loose, and above it all he heard Jaskier cry out in pain. He wanted to get closer, but he couldn’t find the strength. 

“She’s going to kill you,” Jaskier said, though it sounded pained. “She’s going to fucking kill you, and it doesn’t matter if I’m dead because she’s going to take care of everything, you’re dead, you’re already fucking dead because you wanted to treat people like things—”

“Shut up!” The Collector roared, and as the dust started to settle, Geralt could see the figure holding a knife, the blood dripping from it. 

_No._

The Guards took a defensive stance at the door, but Geralt knew it wouldn’t do anything against what was coming. Not when he felt the mage’s power over him lift, and his senses snapped back to him. A second later the mage’s head rolled between the guards’ feet. 

The two guards looked at the head, then at each other, and in three quick moves, both men laid dead on the floor, and Elias stood where they once had. “Sorry for the wait, My Lord, picking the locks took longer than expected.” 

Behind him, a woman, long dark hair, violet eyes, wrists rubbed red and scarred, completely naked, and furious. 

The Collector grabbed Jaskier, using him as a shield, and in that grip, Jaskier swayed dangerously, blood spilling down his shirt. “Stay back,” he said, putting the knife to Jaskier’s delicate throat. “I’ll kill him.” 

What started as a spark caught fire to the back hem of The Collector’s shirt. Flame licked up the fabric, and in the sudden fear of knowing he was on fire, The Collector released Jaskier, who fell to his knees, and The Collector tried to get out of the garment only for the fire to get exponentially worse. 

His entire body froze, even as the flames lapped at his skin. Geralt cringed at the scent. It was over quick though, muscle eaten through leaving ashes and bone in place of a man. 

Violet Eyes looked over the Witchers, and were ignored in favour of crouching next to Jaskier, her hand gentle when she cupped his face in her hand. “Sweet Dandelion, Why would you retu—” 

He grabbed her wrist, leaving blood on her skin. “Go to Novigrad. To Skellige. Geralt—he knows—with Pris, she—take Sylvie, we’ll—the coast—”

Geralt could hear the terrifying slowing of Jaskier’s heart. Violet eyes turned to the Witchers, and Geralt could feel the pulse of chaos before the collars around their necks and wrists popped off, falling with a clatter to the floor. She dragged Geralt by the wrist, closer to Jaskier. “Carry him.” 

He felt weak, dizzy still, but he did as he was told, not wanting to entrust Jaskier to anyone else. The blood staining his clothes had Geralt’s stomach turning to lead. He needed stitches at the very least, a healer, someone skilled, a mage that would heal, but Violet Eyes looked unsteady on her bare feet, sometimes leaning on Priscilla, who’s hand she held. 

“We need to get our brothers,” Lambert said, looking down the end of the hall. 

“Ah, there you are,” Wit’s head poked through a hole in the ceiling. 

“Careful, will you,” Elias demanded, looking up with concern. “This isn’t structurally sound.” 

Wit seemed to have little self-preservation, and a second later it was his feet dangled, and then he dropped through the hole, landed in a crouch. He approached Geralt, worry on his face. “He’s bleeding.” 

Some of the ceiling collapsed, and luckily missed everyone. “We need to get out of here,” Elias insisted. 

“We’ll get our brothers,” Lambert said. He patted Geralt on the shoulder. “Go, get him out of here. Eskel obviously won’t make it easy just because it’s you anyway. Aiden and I’ll handle it.” 

Deep down, Geralt was thankful. He didn’t know how to face Eskel, he wasn’t even sure he’d be recognizable considering the way he could tell his face had swollen in places, skin split and bleeding sluggishly in others. 

Vincent went with Lambert and Aiden, while Elias and Wit led the way out of the estate for Geralt, Jaskier, Priscilla, and Violet Eyes. The night had settled in, entirely too cold, the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. 

Geralt set Jaskier down in the grass as his strength started to give. Kneeling next to him, Geralt put pressure on the wound, and Jaskier groaned. Even pained, it was good to hear him make a sound, further proof he still clung to life. 

Geralt looked up at Violet Eyes. “Can you help him, Mage?” 

“I am Yennefer,” she said, and an apology formed on his lips. He was sure The Collector had called her a great many things, none of which her name. She fell a little unsteady to her knees, held her hand over Jaskier’s body, and he felt chaos; wobble and collapse. “I can’t.” Her eyes were glossy, ethereal in the moonlight. “I used up everything.” 

Wit came forward with needle, thread, and shaking hands. Elias put both hands on the young man’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. At that, Wit passed off the needle and thread, instead falling to his knees next to Geralt, and held out a hand over Jaskier’s body. Chaos was channeled once again and Geralt could hardly believe it when the wound was surrounded by what looked like fog, magic slipping from Wit’s fingers as the wound closed. The grass all around them having become dried, yellow and brittle.

What was left behind from the wound was a small pink line, and the blood stains on his skin. Jaskier finally took a breath that didn’t sound wet. 

Yennefer’s eyes were wide. “Not bad.” 

“I’m a few years out of practice, couldn’t be caught,” he said, looking up at Elias, then back at Yennefer, then Geralt. “I’m sure you two will keep my secret.”

“We will,” Yennefer said, glaring at Geralt like she dared him to deny it. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d take the secret to his grave. 

Elias stalked off without a word, and Geralt breathed. 

They were far from out of the woods, but just for a moment, finally, he was free.


	8. Chapter 8

Yennefer looked a little odd in the ill-fitting riding gear she’d been supplied by Elias, the man had also returned with some of Geralt’s clothes, and a thick fur to help keep the unconscious Jaskier warm. 

“I need to find Sylvia,” Yennefer said. 

“I should check on the progress in the cellars.” Geralt stood, he didn’t want to return to the inside of the estate but Lambert was still there. Eskel too. Who knew who else. Someone could be hurt. 

“I’ll go with you,” Wit said, dusting his knees off. “I can’t do much, but I might be of some help.”

“I’ll stay with Jaskier, and Priscilla,” Elias said, and while he appeared unarmed, Geralt knew he had at least five knives on him at all times. There were also some of the men that Jaskier had paid off for protection wandering around the grounds, looking surprised and confused by the half-crumbled side of the estate. They were safe enough. 

Together, Yennefer, Geralt, and Wit returned to the estate, but split off once inside. Geralt took careful steps on the weakened stairs, and kept an eye on what was left of the ceiling as he walked down the halls. He saw a few men standing in the hall, one of which turned to face him, and Geralt’s knees nearly buckled. “Vesemir!” 

The embrace was solidifying, and Geralt could almost cry with relief. One part of him thought Vesemir had stayed safe up in the mountains, safe and untouchable. Alternatively, when Geralt considered Vesemir in captivity, he hadn’t had much hope that his much older mentor would survive the harsh controls of evil masters. Either way, he hadn’t expected to ever see Vesemir again.

When they parted, Vesemir’s hand stayed on Geralt’s shoulder, like he knew that Geralt needed the support. “Eskel’s had a rough go of it,” Vesemir said. “Lambert’s had little luck.” 

“We aren’t leaving him,” Geralt said. He’d stay in this fucking hallway himself, making sure Eskel ate and drank, and whittled away at the distrust until Geralt could mend Eskel’s broken soul. 

“No, we won’t. But we also shouldn’t stay here too long. It’s dangerous. No telling how many from this house have families expecting them, or neighbouring lords to hear of what happened here.” 

Geralt frowned. “We can’t just drag him out of here.” 

“No, certainly not.” 

Wit scuffed his boot against the floor. “I could make him sleep. Might help to not wake in a dungeon. Give us time to clear Lettenhove.” 

Geralt looked to Vesemir, who gave a shrug. “It’s as good an idea as any.” 

°°°

It was four days before the group made a real stop, and set up a full camp. Four days before they could finally breathe. Ten Wolf Witchers, all of which Geralt knew in some capacity. Aiden, Sylvia, Priscilla, Yennefer, Elias, and Wit still travelled with them. Vincent had parted, he had loyalties to Zoltan, and family that worked the orchards, who awaited his return. 

Jaskier had been in and out of consciousness for a few days, incoherent with fever that Wit wasn’t sure how to help. Geralt did his best to keep his former master hydrated.

In the great outdoors, Eskel snarled at anyone who came near, but he didn’t try to leave them either. He let Lambert sit about seven feet away, but eyed him the entire time, snarling, and occasionally bearing teeth. Lambert kept bribing him with food. Geralt knew the process would be a long one, but had hope that Eskel would be okay in the end. 

The fire crackled. Yennefer sat with Priscilla, speaking to her softly, promising to find a solution. 

“Why didn’t he…” Geralt stumbled over his words, and Yennefer sighed.

“Bleed me of emotions and take me under his complete control?” She scoffed. “Dimeritium shackles kept me powerless, and he took joy in my rage, and sadness. You take another’s emotions away, and what is left? No screams, no crying, it would bore him terribly. That man was a fucking monster.” 

Geralt startled as Jaskier suddenly turned onto his side. “Jaskier?” 

Wild eyes met his, and Jaskier let out a little cry, grabbing where he’d been stabbed, pulling up his shirt, and then running his fingers over the scar. “I was stabbed!” 

“Days ago, old news,” Yennefer said evenly, her tone sounding bored. 

Jaskier took a deep breath. “Well, the ladies like scars, don’t they?” 

She leaned a little closer, looking at it. “Looks like a paper cut.” 

“A—a paper—why you!” Jaskier sputtered, and let his shirt drop. “A paper cut.” 

“Fitting for a bard and scholar, it’s what you became, isn’t it?” 

“Oh. No. I… a lot happened—” Jaskier waved his hand like he could shoo the previous events away. “It was not in the cards.” 

“Too bad, you were good.” 

“You said I sounded like I’d swallowed a frog!”

“You were eight, and I said you sounded like were gargling a frog.” 

“That is worse!” 

Yennefer smiled, almost maternally at him. “How are you feeling?” 

“My ego is wounded,” Jaskier replied with a little smile in return. 

“Ah, you’ll rise above. You always do. Tenacious little weed.” 

Jaskier looked to Geralt, fidgeted with his shirt, then turned to Yennefer. “Mind giving us a minute?”

“Fine. I should ensure Lambert doesn’t lose an arm. Again.” 

“That’s in poor taste,” Jaskier said as she stood, but she ignored him, walking off, fearless among the Witchers who sat around. 

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked, poking his finger through the hole in his own shirt, still stained with blood. 

“I’m fine.” It was the truth, he healed up quickly without a mage suppressing his mutagens. “Lambert is still working on wearing down Eskel into trusting him. It’s a slow process, but Aubry knew where their medallions were kept, it seemed to help a bit—him having it back.” 

“Good, I’m glad.” Jaskier stared at him a long moment. “I—when I saw your face, and there was so much blood, I just—” 

“Jaskier! You’re awake!” Sylvia came running between them, tackling Jaskier, and the weakened man fell back. Despite the fact she’d knocked the wind out of him, he held her tight until she started to pull away first. 

Geralt stood, left to give their proper reunion some privacy, pausing at a distance to look back at the siblings. They had the same colour of hair, same blue eyes, same curve in their lips as they smiled at one another. He was happy for them, and in the same moment, wished he could hug his own brother.

He found Vesemir by one of the fires, and sat down with him. They hadn’t had much of a chance to talk while walking. “I half thought you’d still be up in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said, as he stared into the fire. “It was a nice thought, to think of you safe.” 

“Came down for the autumn supply run many years ago, heard of Witchers being captured. The more rumours I heard—well, figured there was no point in maintaining a keep if there were no Witchers left to return.” Vesemir poked the fire with a stick. “Started travelling, trying to find other Witchers. Got ambushed in Redania. Was lucky in a way, the Lord ended up sick and dead within a week. His son inherited and didn’t quite know what to do with… well anything, honestly, the lad was a mess. Won’t say captivity suited me, but it was better than—” he turned his head, and Geralt followed his gaze. 

They watched as Eskel seemed confused about who to cower from, Yennefer with her magic, or Lambert just raising one arm, palm out to show his hand held no weapon. 

“Piotr said Eskel had been there before he’d been purchased,” Vesemir said. “Likely there years, alone, already a little mad.” 

“He got worse, fast from what I heard,” Aubry murmured from the other side of the fire. “That mage sensed Eskel’s connection to the chaos, knew his signs would be stronger than anyone else’s. Wanted to make him into the ultimate weapon, best fighter.” 

“They aren’t getting anywhere with him,” Geralt murmured. 

“Best cut our losses,” Aubry said, raising his hands in defense when Geralt snarled at him. “Right now, he’s a liability at best. And you want to go to Novigrad? With him? You’ll never pass through those crowded streets. Simple as that. Won’t happen.” 

Aubry, as much as Geralt loathed to admit it, had a point. 

They’d work on it. They had time. 

°°°

“I’m surprised you yielded,” Geralt said the next night. Nearly everyone had already fallen asleep. Lambert, and Vesemir were keeping watch, patrolling the field they’d set up camp in. 

Jaskier reached out to the fire, wiggling his fingers a bit before drawing his hands close, and massaging his fingers. “I know when a fight is lost.” He cringed, clenched his hand into a fist and released. “And I admit, I was not prepared to see you that injured, there was so much blood and I feared—well I feared he would kill you.” 

“And you had a plan b.” 

“I had the rough outline of a plan b that depended on a number of outside factors. Like Elias and Wit being willing to help, even though I wouldn’t have blamed them for running. I needed them to break Yennefer free—” 

“How did you know she was there?”

“She kind of raised Pris, and when they performed The Pull on Pris, Yennefer came to rescue her, but was captured herself. How that happened, I’m not sure, didn’t have a chance to find out either, I got sick shortly after, and then, well, everything got worse from there. However, I did know that if Elias could locate and free Yennefer, she would happily bring the entire estate to the ground. I was lucky she was still there after all these years, and how horribly unlucky for her that she was.” 

“So, you had nothing.” 

“I had faith an evil man remained evil,” Jaskier said, as he plucked a few strands of grass, and tied them together. “I knew Elias had the skills to break Yennefer out if she was still there.” 

“That isn’t much.” 

“No, it isn’t, but it was enough.” Jaskier’s fingers stopped braiding the grass. “I didn’t like plan a. I never wanted to put someone in the position I put you in. I told myself that the ends justify the means but—” Jaskier sighed. “They don’t, do they? I’m not a good man, perhaps not the monstrosity my father became, but I’m not… good.” 

Geralt looked across the field to where Lambert was laying on his back, arm tucked under his head, and Eskel laying close by, still awake, still watching, but trusting in Lambert more and more. He would have done anything for his brothers, his family.

“I am a Witcher. I know monsters. Trust me, you aren’t one.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widened before he tucked his head, massaging his hand. “I trust you, Geralt. I do.”

°°° 

In the morning, the Witchers and Mages took the long road around a settlement, while the humans went through it, picking up what supplies they could, meeting up again down the road for a quick lunch. 

Geralt fell back in the pack, walking closer to Lambert, looking over his shoulder at where Eskel continued to follow at a distance. “Any luck?” 

“He’s still here,” Lambert said. “He accepts food, water, growls a bit, but hasn’t tried to hurt me.” 

“Still takes swipes at me though,” Aiden said, poking at a purpling bruise on his jaw. 

“You have a punchable face,” Lambert said. 

Aiden shoved Lambert and the responding snarl didn’t come from the youngest wolf, but Eskel. The four men all stopped. Aiden turned to keep Eskel in view, his hands balling into fists. Not good. Eskel stalked forward. 

Geralt made the choice to get between them, his empty hands in front of him. “Esk—” He dodged the punch, backed up two steps. “Eskel, it’s okay—”

“We were just playing,” Lambert hooked an arm around Eskel’s. “It’s okay, I’m fine, Aiden was just playing.” 

Eskel still snarled, but didn’t try to shake Lambert off, nor continue his approach. 

“Go on ahead,” Lambert suggested. “We’ll catch up.” 

Geralt had to trust that Lambert knew what he was doing, and the fact that Eskel hadn’t tried to do anything to Lambert yet. Eskel had reacted in Lambert’s defense in the first place made Geralt comfortable enough to walk away. Aiden didn’t look too happy, but he fell into stride with Geralt. 

The closest companions were Jaskier and his sister, walking side by side. Jaskier still felt a bit of pain where he’d been stabbed. He spent some time walking until the ache got too uncomfortable, and then was pushed toward the carriage by Yennefer. Geralt learned more about Jaskier from the small bits of conversation he overheard between the siblings. A mischievous soul, quick with pranks and revelry, of all their siblings the one to go to for some good cheer. 

She asked him to play the lute, to sing, and he brushed her requests off time and time again. 

As the sun dipped low in the sky, they started to set up camp once more. They were getting closer and closer to Novigrad. Geralt still feared lords finding them, and how quickly they could end up toys for nobility once more. 

Three fires were lit, little clusters broke off. Geralt sat with Vesemir, Aubry, Elias, and Wit for a while. Vesemir didn’t talk much, but Aubry talked about some of the more malicious lords he’d found himself owned by over the years, passed along until he ended up one of The Collector’s. The more Geralt heard, the more he thought being set on fire had been too kind a death. 

Geralt took his turn patrolling, and stayed at it a few extra hours when the thought of laying down and closing his eyes made his skin itch. He kept walking until Lambert joined him, and cast a soft Aard, just to push Geralt into a tree. “Go to bed, you were supposed to wake me up hours ago.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Sleep, meditate, I don’t care, but go rest. You look like shit.” 

He didn’t bother arguing, just stalked off toward the nearest fire. Sylvia was curled up on a bedroll. Jaskier was sitting on his, staring at his hands in the firelight. The lute that he’d heard Elias had purchased at Sylvia’s insistence laid in a case next to him. Despite some of the requests Geralt had heard from Sylvia earlier in the evening, it remained untouched. 

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep, he sat down near Jaskier. “You should sleep.” 

“So should you,” Jaskier replied. 

“If you played a song, she’d leave you alone,” Geralt said. He knew Jaskier could play, not for long, but Geralt still remembered that haunting tune. 

Jaskier looked at his sleeping sister, and sighed. “It won’t be the same. I can’t—I can’t play like I used to, can’t sing like it either. I remember screaming so hard when he broke my hands that I kept spitting up blood. I’ve sounded different ever since.” He rested his chin on his knee. “She still believes me the same man she last saw married off and gone from her world. I’m not.” He looked to Geralt then. “I don’t know how to be that brother anymore.” 

“I don’t think she needs you to be. You care for her, you did so much to see her safe, to give her a chance to be free in a way you weren’t. When it comes down to it, you continue to be exactly the kind of brother she needs at any given time.” 

Jaskier took a deep breath, and let it out slow. “You always know just what to say, Geralt.” 

They sat together in a comfortable silence until Jaskier started to fall asleep sitting up. He finally laid down and ended up snoring softly, laying belly up, throat exposed. For all that he spoke of being a bad person, of how Geralt should hate him, he constantly showcased his belief that Geralt was a good man, always trusting that in the Witcher’s presence, he would be safe.

And for some reason, in the human’s presence, he found himself at ease, slipping into a light doze, breathing deeply the soft scent of fresh peaches. 

°°°

The crack of a branch breaking woke him from his sleep. His heart remained steady, slow to panic thanks to the mutations, but adrenaline had him from dead asleep to wide awake in a second. The scent of blood was so thick he could taste it in the back of his throat. 

He looked around, but the fires had burned down to embers, making it difficult to see. Shadows laying around, still sleeping, unaware. 

Who was in the woods? Lords come to reclaim the free Witchers? Some form of monster? None of them had silver swords anymore, no potions. 

He shifted to the first prone body, shaking them to wake them from their slumber, but Aubry remained limp under his hand, and the scent of blood grew thicker. _Fuck._ No. 

He moved to the next. Vesemir? Dead. _No. No. No._

The next person was Sylvia, so small at fourteen, her hair tangled, mouth open in a silent scream, knife still embedded in her neck as she struggled to breathe, blood bubbling from her lips. 

He risked it, casting igni on the embers, finally able to fully see. 

Jaskier sat on the other side, a dagger in hand, pointed at his own throat. Geralt’s entire body felt as though it had been dunked into ice water. “Shhh, it’s okay, Geralt. Only sweet dreams.” 

He tried to move, but could only watch in horror as Jaskier rammed the knife through his throat at an upward angle. 

Breath caught in his throat, and he felt something on his cheek, gentle and then—

Awake. The scent of peaches, paper, and worry right by his nose. Jaskier’s thumb kept soothing over his cheek. “It’s okay,” he said in that same soft whisper. “You’re safe.” 

Geralt slowly sat up, and found that Eskel was staring at them, a pinch in his brow. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier asked, ending the question on a yawn. 

“Everyone was dead or dying.” 

There was a beat of silence before Jaskier sighed. “That must have been terrifying.” 

Geralt just let out a little ‘hmm’ in response. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.” Geralt rubbed his hand over his face, trying to rid himself of the last clinging bit of panic. “Go back to sleep, sorry I woke you.” 

Jaskier frowned, but he did lay back down. A few seconds later, he was humming, a soft tune, a lullaby. 

°°°

They’d made good timing, and speculated they could make it to Novigrad by the next nightfall. Geralt spent his evening thus far talking to Eskel at a distance, speaking of The Path, of Kaer Morhen, of memories shared from before their lives went to shit. Eskel continued glaring, but didn’t snarl at him, so he counted it as a win. 

He was in the middle of reciting a story involving too much of Lambert’s moonshine, and a game of Gwent when he heard a few notes from a lute. He looked over his shoulder, and sure enough Jaskier was sitting nearby, the lute in his lap, and Sylvia sitting across from him.

Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing, turning to the sound. Yennefer clenched her hand, dismissing the magic she’d been showing Wit. Aubry poked a bit at a fire, but even his eyes were on Jaskier. 

“No sad songs,” Sylvia said, breaking the silence. 

Jaskier stretched his fingers again, plucked a few notes, slowly picking up speed into something familiar, a tavern song from the edge of his memories. Jaskier didn’t sing, three consecutive notes were off even to Geralt’s untrained ear, and then the sound stopped all at once. 

His hands trembled, and he practically tossed the lute aside. 

“Jaskier!” Sylvia said, as Yennefer cried out, “Dandelion!”

But he was on his feet, walking off, unsteady on his feet as he tried to move too fast without running. Geralt followed across the field, through the woods, right to the lake where Jaskier had stopped, and glared at the water as if it had personally offended him. 

“Jaskier?” 

Jaskier’s shoulders shook, and Geralt walked over. Jaskier had his hands out in front of him, they trembled violently. He breathed like he choked on the air. “I’m fine,” he said, voice a sour note. “Go, just—” his breath wheezed and Geralt wasn’t sure what to do, but the answer wasn’t walking away. 

“You need to breathe,” Geralt said, nice and even. He reached out slow, making sure Jaskier would see what he was doing, and placed his hand over Jaskier’s heart. “Breathe in.” He could feel Jaskier struggle to comply, wheezing on the breath. “Out.” He counted the beats, instructed every breath until Jaskier’s wide, panicked eyes finally calmed. “You okay?”

Jaskier’s lips pressed together tight, he nodded. “Can we just stay here a while?” he whispered. “I’m not ready to, well, face the music.”

“Sure.” 

The moonlight reflected off the water, insuring even with his lesser senses, Jaskier could see. The two of them sat on the uneven ground at the edge of the water, the sound calming, and reminded Geralt of the past, of camping alone and with— “I used to have a horse. Her name was Roach. Not sure what happened to her after I was captured. I hope a nice farmer found her.” 

Jaskier patted his shoulder. “I hope so too.”

“It was one of the things I missed most,” Geralt said. “Not just Roach and her silent company, but riding horseback, travelling. Sounds silly, doesn’t it, that that is one of the things I missed most.”

“No it doesn’t,” Jaskier replied. “I had a horse. His name was Pegasus. I used to braid flowers into his mane. Prettiest horse you’d have ever seen. It was a delight riding around, so high up, the speed… I wonder if Sylvia knows what happened to him.” 

“Did he get out of the stable?” Geralt asked. 

“Hm? Oh, no, I—uh—well, I was caught kissing the stable hand,” he whispered, like it was a secret he entrusted to Geralt alone. “That’s why father broke my hands, for touching what I should not have—” those hands trembled, “—and after that, he married me off to a monster of a man, because of my… _unnatural_ desires, telling me this was what I wanted, a man in my bed, right? Told me I should be thanking him. Others would have done worse if their son—” he shook his head. “I wasn’t permitted to take Pegasus when I was married.”

Every time he learned something new about Jaskier, he had the overwhelming urge to bundle him up, hold him close, and ensure the rest of his life was full of kindness. It had been over a decade since he’d felt any such longing. “You should be free to love whoever you wish.” 

Jaskier’s laugh was purely self-deprecating, and yet he still looked at Geralt as if he’d hung the moon in the sky just for him. “You sure?” 

Geralt nodded, and remembering that Jaskier had mentioned his hands ached more in the cold, Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hands gently, stacked them over one another, and sandwiched them between his warmer ones. They felt like ice. “You should have said you were cold.” 

“I’m not a child,” Jaskier said, petulant like the child he decreed he wasn’t. He stared down at their hands together. “I owned you.” 

“Looking back, I never felt owned.” In fact, the longer he’d spent in Jaskier’s presence, the better he’d felt, safer, freer, equal. “I knew I was, but—you were terrible at being a master.” It also helped once he’d fully understood Jaskier’s motivations, and had been part of the plan. 

“I take that as the highest compliment,” Jaskier said with a weak smile. They stayed like that, sitting side by side, hands together. “Are we friends?” 

“After all we’ve been through together?” Geralt nodded. “Yes.”

Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “Good. That’s… that’s very good.”

They sat in the calm and quiet. Geralt’s larger hands staying in place until Jaskier’s were warm again. 

“We should get back,” Geralt said. “You probably worried your sister.” 

Jaskier nodded his agreement, and together they started walking back through the woods, Geralt guiding Jaskier through the dark. 

  
°°°

Geralt kept his hood up, and his eyes down, this time trusting Jaskier to lead him through the busy streets of Novigrad. They’d all split up into small groups to be less noticeable. He thought of the way Eskel had slowly fallen under Yennefer’s spell, none of them trusting the progress Lambert had made versus the risks of the city. They’d gone gone first with a cart to carry Eskel, and would likely already be at the docks. 

Every once in a while Geralt would risk a peek at the city; the marketplace, a small garden, a stage with performers—the city was still alive and well, different from the last he’d been there. 

He could smell the sea as they started to walk downhill, and he felt the chill from the vast open water on the wind. Jaskier’s cheeks and nose were red, and his teeth chattered. 

“Almost there,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier just nodded, rubbing his hands together. 

At the docks, Yennefer stood, leaning back against one of the railings. Aubry stood nearby staring out at the water, while Elias watched his back, Sylvia at his side. Geralt risked looking around a bit, most people at the docks were busy workers who wouldn’t notice his golden eyes. 

He spotted a man loading up a boat, and with the bright shock of red hair, and by the design of the boat he figured it likely to be Hjalmar An Craite, now a man rather than the child Geralt remembered him as. 

Hjalmar noticed Jaskier’s arrival, and came to meet them. “Glad you made it.” 

“Supplies loaded?” Jaskier asked, straight to business.

“Nearly,” Hjalmar replied. “Got that—er—cargo aboard.” 

_Eskel._

Jaskier nodded. “Good. There is one more group of people coming. How soon can we leave?” 

“Need to be on the water within the hour, or we’ll have to wait for first light. Don’t figure you want that.” 

“Prefer to be gone as soon as possible.” 

“Hjal! Shut your gob, and give me a hand!” A woman with braided red-hair and a Skellige accent shouted. She had good grip on the rope handle on one side of a large crate, having dragged it until the point in which it needed to be lifted on the other side too. 

“Feel free to go aboard, we’re nearly done,” Hjalmar told them before he left to assist the woman. 

They took the advice, best to be out of sight. Aboard the boat, the two of them walked to the far side, away from prying eyes, and stared out at sea. 

“We made it,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier sighed, and bumped shoulders with Geralt. “It’s been a long time coming.” 

Geralt knew there would be years of healing that would need to be done for all of them, and he still worried about the state that Eskel remained in, but they’d made it this far, and they deserved this moment of triumph. 

He stood beside the man who’d once owned him, who had shifted from Master, to ally, to friend. He inhaled the scents he associated with freedom: the sea and peaches. Jaskier stared out at the sea with awe. Geralt wished he could freeze the moment, keep it, afraid of everything before, and anxious of what would come. 

Jaskier turned to him with the brightest smile, and Geralt didn’t want to let a chance slip away. He was free to make his own choices now, he could have wants, desires, he could act upon them as he wished.He could take chances, risks were no longer life or death. He covered Jaskier’s hand on the railing with his own, and to his delight Jaskier gravitated closer. Geralt leaned in, his lips near Jaskier’s ear. “Are we more than friends?”

Jaskier turned to him, their noses nearly brushing, his smile wide. “We could be. We could be anything we want.” The answer warmed something within him. With his free hand, he cupped Jaskier’s face, thumb brushing the smooth skin of his cheek. “But you’ll need to be patient with me, I’m—” 

“You’re not the only one who feels the need to take this slow,” Geralt murmured.

“But are going to kiss m—”

Geralt cut him off with his lips, but from the way Jaskier’s fingers gripped Geralt’s cloak and pulled him closer, he didn’t mind one bit. 


End file.
